


The Sun Will Come Out

by momatu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dark Magic, Dubious Consent, HP: EWE, Happy Ending, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momatu/pseuds/momatu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six-year-old Scorpius Malfoy needs a tutor. Several witches and wizards with the best credentials and impeccable background have been hired--then rapidly fired. Enter Harry Potter, who immediately hits it off with Scorpius. It takes a while longer for the Lord of the Manor to come around.</p><p><b>Career Choices:</b> Harry: Ministry Employee; Draco: Manages the Malfoy Estate</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun Will Come Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [huldrejenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/huldrejenta/gifts).



> For [Prompt # 54](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NnIZtnyWEqbQHgi3U6N1CwbznCTkDeZGWJqgEw6KRrQ/).
> 
> Disclaimer – All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. This work includes direct quotes from the Harry Potter series including, but not limited to, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.” Members of the Chudley Cannons Quidditch team are named for members of the U.S. Men’s World Cup Team. The Dubious Consent and Dark Magic tags are just to be safe. Both are in the past and are not regarding the Harry/Draco pairing. Neither are the focus of the story. 
> 
> I would like to thank my Project Team Beta transit betas hammondgirl, ElleCC, Spider Lilly, and Thir13enth and especially my permanent assignment beta, wifie29, who agreed to beta the fic from beginning to end. Also thank you to all the lovely Brits at hp_britglish for helping this American to British her writing up a bit. Last but not least, thank you to huldrejenta for your awesome prompt. I hope you’ll enjoy the trip your prompt took me on as much as I have.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

THE SUN WILL COME OUT

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The front door slammed shut with resolute finality, and Draco hung his head in spite of the anger coursing through him. The heavy sound signalled more than just the departure of Miss Westbourne. After fifteen years, he was giving up. He conceded defeat. They’d won. He was ready to do what so many others like him had already done—chuck it. Why shouldn’t he? There was nothing to keep them in England now, not anymore.

He ground his teeth together, and his hand itched to grab his wand and go after the witch, teach her a thing or two himself. He would dearly love to teach her exactly what those two words she threw about so easily really meant.

 _Death Eater_

Rather than head towards the door, Draco took a deep breath and exhaled long and loud through his nose. Anger pulsed through him, and he indulged himself by imagining showing Little-Miss-Never-Even-Fought-In-The-Fucking-War-Westbourne and all the others like her exactly what it had been like. But imagining it was all he allowed himself. He took two more deep breaths and turned to climb the stairs. People said, or so he’d heard, that forgiveness freed the person who forgave far more than it did the one who was forgiven. He didn’t know about that, but apparently, deciding one had had enough worked the same way. The countless Miss Westbournes of the world might have won, but in doing so, they’d lost their power over him. The battle was over, and they no longer mattered. All that mattered was waiting for him upstairs. 

Pushing open the heavy oak door, Draco entered his son’s bedroom. Scorpius sat on the floor playing with his Quidditch figures while a house-elf stood watch. “Hey, monkey,” Draco said softly. 

Setting down the miniature Seeker, his son looked up at him. Scorpius was Draco in miniature. He had the same colouring, the same angular features. Looking at his son was like looking at himself at that age. The child was unmistakeably a Malfoy. Not for the first time did Draco wish his little boy had inherited his mother’s dark hair and eyes. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that just because the Miss Westbournes of the world no longer mattered to him that the reverse was true. With different features that didn’t single him out as a Malfoy, Scorpius’ future might be just a little less difficult.

“What did I do wrong, Daddy?”

“Nothing at all, Scorpius. It was she who was in the wrong, not you.”

Draco sat down beside his son. He could see the questions forming behind the child’s eyes. _Why did she call you that, Daddy? Why did she say those things? What do those words mean?_ He’d known for six years that one day he would have to answer those questions, among others, and he’d sworn to himself he would tell his son the truth. Only, he’d hoped Scorpius would have been older when that time came. How did you explain to a six-year-old why people called his father things like _Death Eater_? He wouldn’t lie to his son when the questions were asked, but if he could delay that day, he would.

“I don’t like her, Daddy.”

“Don’t worry about it, monkey. I don’t like her either. She won’t be back.”

The little boy sighed. “Do I hafta have another new teacher? I don’t like teachers, Daddy. Why can’t you just keep teaching me yourself? You’re smarter than all of them.”

“‘Do I _have to_ have another new teacher’, Scorpius,” Draco enunciated carefully. “ _Hafta_ is not a word. But, no. No more new teachers for a while.” He pulled his son onto his lap and smiled. “How would you like to go on holiday?” he asked. He touched his forehead to his son’s. “You and I can have an adventure.”

“Yay!” Scorpius exclaimed. “Can we, Daddy?”

“You bet.”

“Where’re we goin’, Daddy?”

Draco held his son close. First thing tomorrow morning, he was going to Floo call his probation officer at the Ministry and tell him they were leaving. He had no idea where they were going, nor did he care. He only knew they were leaving—leaving England, leaving Britain, leaving Europe. He would find his precious son somewhere to grow up where people wouldn’t condemn him because of the Mark on his father’s arm.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The lift came to an abrupt stop, and the magical voice announced their arrival on Level Seven. “Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, Ludicrous Patents Office, Foreign Affairs and Sports Department and the Office of Muggle and Magical Sports and Activities Interaction and Exchange.”

Behind Harry, his godson, Teddy, sang along with whoever was the latest big name in music. The boy’s eyes were closed, and his head was bowed as he bobbed it in time with the music playing over his mPod. Others on the lift were peeking at him out of the corners of their eyes and trying not to laugh. Fighting a smile himself, Harry called his name twice to no avail. He plucked one of the earbuds from Teddy’s ears. “You’re doing it again, mate,” he said when the boy looked at him.

Teddy’s face turned pink, and he quickly pulled the other earbud from his ear and stuffed both in his pocket. 

Years ago, the Weasleys had all gone to a party for Hermione’s parents’ anniversary, and George had been perplexed by all the people in the streets with wires hanging from their ears. The idea of a small devise which played music that only the wearer could hear had excited him, and he’d set to work on creating the mPod almost the very moment he’d got back to his shop. The small, charmed squares of unbreakable glass combined with reworked extendable ears had taken the younger generation of wizards by storm—and earned their creator a huge pile of galleons. 

“This is our floor,” Harry said, but Teddy was already scurrying passed him off the lift, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor and the pink on his cheeks deepening to a true Gryffindor red.

“So, let me just do a bit of work, and we’ll be off,” Harry continued as they made their way down the corridor towards his office. When Teddy didn’t respond, Harry elbowed him, grinning. “Not even a three.”

Teddy looked at him, his embarrassment gone, replaced by puzzlement. His expression was the classic “I’ll humour you because you’re getting old, and your mind is starting to go” look teenagers so often gave their parents. 

“On the scale of embarrassing things that will happen to you in your life, singing on a lift in front of strangers isn’t even a three. Now, did I ever tell you about the time Uncle Ron tried to hex this git we went to Hogwarts with? The tosser was picking on Aunt Hermione, and Uncle Ron wanted to get him back. Except his wand was dodgy after a run-in with the Whomping Willow, so it backfired, and he hexed himself instead. In front of the whole school. Now, that? That, was a ten. Never, and I mean this Teddo, never cast a Slug-vomiting Charm with a dodgy wand.”

“I won’t,” Teddy agreed, laughing.

Entering his office, Harry said, “I won’t be long. Just have a few memos I have to get off, and then we can get going.” 

Gathering his notes from yesterday’s meeting with his colleague in the Muggle world and the representative of the Department of Magical Transportation to review, Harry settled himself at his desk. 

Harry was the head of the Office of Muggle and Magical Sports and Activities Interaction and Exchange. His job would be considered boring by many, but it suited him perfectly. 

As had been universally expected, he’d begun Auror training almost immediately after the war. The need had been great, and it had been what he’d wanted to do since was thirteen. It had seemed like the inevitable course his life would take. But as right as the move had seemed, it was wrong. It had taken less than a month of training for him to realise the last thing he wanted was to be an Auror. The war was over. He’d been fighting the bad guys since he was eleven years old, and he was done with it. All he wanted was a nice, quiet life that did not involve the possibility of lethal curses on a daily basis. Now, Harry headed to the Atrium at the end of the day to Floo home and left his job behind. 

A wonderful thing, that—leaving one’s job behind one at the end of the day.

Harry glanced through his notes from yesterday’s meeting. 

While he hadn’t wanted to become an Auror, he had wanted to contribute to the betterment of his world in some way, and he’d found that way quite unexpectedly. It hadn’t quite hit him in the face, but it had been a near thing. 

In the days, weeks, and months following the war, the Wizarding world had been in a beaten and bloodied state, much like a prize fighter at the end of a championship bout. People had been in a kind of a stupor. Like the prize fighter, they’d taken too many blows. Their world had still been standing at the end of the fight, but it had been standing on shaking legs.

Like so many others, Harry had volunteered to help rebuild Hogwarts. There had been many jobs which required specialised magical skills, but there’d been still many more that anyone competent with a wand could take on. After leaving Auror training, returning to Hogwarts to assist in the rebuilding was exactly what Harry had needed. He’d already learnt he hadn’t wanted to fight. At Hogwarts, he’d learnt he wanted to build. 

Not buildings, Harry had wanted to build the future.

Everyone in the Wizarding world had a stake in Hogwarts. Almost every witch or wizard in all of Britain had been educated there. People had still been scared in those early days after the war, and parents had been unwilling to be far from their children, who had been equally unwilling to be far from their parents. The result was that sometimes whole families—magical and mixed, parents and children—had turned up to do what they could to repair the damage done to their Hogwarts. 

Harry’d been casting spells all day, and he’d been exhausted. There had been a tea tent set up to provide meals and refreshments to the volunteers, and as he’d made his way across the grounds towards it one afternoon, he’d seen a small group of young children kicking a ball around. They were the children of Muggle-born and Half-blood witches and wizards, and they’d got up an impromptu game of football whilst they’d waited for their parents to finish their shift. A group of Muggles, the children’s non-magical parents, had been close by keeping watch. 

Looking on, although from farther off, had been a group of Pure-blood children, also waiting for their parents or other family members who were working on the school. They’d been trying to look like they hadn’t noticed the other children playing.

Harry had stood and observed. He’d waited and hoped, but what he’d waited and hoped for hadn’t happened. No one had made any attempt to include the Pure-blood children in the game.

After the war, tension between Muggle-borns, Half-bloods, and Pure-bloods had been extreme, with each group closing in on itself and suspicious of the other two. The tension between Muggle-borns and Half-bloods had been less than that between either group and Pure-bloods, but it had been there nonetheless. 

There had been some, Harry among them, who feared the need to bring those responsible for so much destruction to justice might warp into vigilantism, that those who had been targeted and had suffered so terribly during the war might seek to retaliate against those responsible for their suffering. From there, it wouldn’t be a far jump to spread the blame to any Pure-blood who couldn’t prove they’d actively opposed Voldemort. They could so easily have had a second war on their hands if those tensions were not diffused.

Harry had watched the two groups of children, those included in the game and those excluded. He knew too well what it felt like to be the one on the outside. 

“Hey, got room for me and my friends?” he’d called out as he approached the kids with the ball. 

It was a simple fact that there was no one in the Wizarding world who didn’t know his face. Even those pre-Hogwarts-aged kids and their Muggle relatives recognised him immediately, and he’d been enthusiastically welcomed to their group. A child of about nine had kicked the ball to him, arcing it high and nearly hitting Harry in the face. There had been gasps, but with his Seeker’s reflexes, Harry had caught the ball, and he’d laughed. Then, he’d turned and called out to the Pure-blood children to come and join them, to learn a new game called football. 

That had led to more gasps. 

It had also led to his idea to create a program to give children from different backgrounds a chance to get to know each other before their first day at Hogwarts. And so, the Office of Muggle and Magical Sports and Activities Interaction and Exchange had been born—a very long name for a department with a very simple goal.

His office planned a number of events throughout the year for children from both the Wizarding world and Muggle-borns to meet and get to know each other before arriving at King’s Cross as First Years. The kids, and their families, got to know one another’s world first-hand through a number of gatherings and excursions throughout the year starting when the kids were eight. Additionally, help was offered to children from Muggle backgrounds in preparing for Hogwarts, a kind of pre-Hogwarts magical version of Muggle Studies.

As Harry finished a memo to his counterpart in the Muggle world, Teddy roamed around his office. 

The walls of Harry’s office were covered with framed posters—depicting motionless, Muggle photographs—of footballers, tennis players, skiers, figure skaters and Team GB from the 2012 London Olympics. There were also posters for cultural events, such as the British Museum and historical and Royal attractions. With his earbuds back in his ears and his head once again bobbing to the music that only he could hear, Teddy drifted from poster to poster. 

Harry grinned. Any second now, he’d start singing along again.

It was hard for Harry to believe how quickly the last fifteen years had flown by. It seemed like just yesterday he’d held his godson for the first time, and now Teddy would be taking his O.W.L.s in just two months. He knew he shouldn’t, but in his mind, Harry sometimes still saw him as a small child who wouldn’t move more than a foot from either his grandmother’s or Harry’s sides for a least twenty minutes whenever they took him somewhere. At some time over the course of the years, the questions _Can we go . . .?_ and _Can you take me . . . ?_ had changed into _Can I go with . . .?_ The confident young man Teddy was becoming made Harry inordinately proud, but that the child he had been was gone forever made him more than a little sad. 

“It’s strange, though. Don’t you think?” Teddy asked in the overly loud voice people used whilst wearing earbuds. He prodded at the image of an Olympic athlete. “They don’t move. Not even when you poke at them.”

“Yeah, strange,” Harry agreed as he dropped the memo into a special outbox that would transport it to the matching inbox on his cousin, Dudley’s, desk.

If he had hoped for the different factions of his world to make peace with each other, he’d felt he should make peace within his own world first. 

Harry snuck up next to Teddy and jabbed him in the shoulder. “After all, you move when I poke you.”

Teddy adopted a fighter’s stance, but rather than fists, he raised pointed hands at Harry, stabbing his index fingers at him. “Yeah, come on. Let’s go,” he laughed, dancing around Harry like a boxer.

Harry feigned to poke him from the right, but when Teddy leaned away from the attack, Harry grabbed him and wrapped his left arm around his godson’s shoulders, tousling his hair like he used to when Teddy was small. “Gotcha,” Harry laughed.

“Aw, come on! Not the hair, Harry!”

Still chuckling, Harry released him and picked up a file from the corner of his desk. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I just need to run this to the Improper Use of Magic office up on Two.” The one part of his job Harry didn’t like was all the paperwork it entailed. The file he had to deliver to Improper Use was an application for a temporary waiver of the Statute of Secrecy to allow him to bring the Muggle-borns and their families into the Wizarding world for a weekend in July. The application was two feet long and in triplicate. 

The best part, aside from working with the kids, which Harry loved, was how much free time it allowed him. Most weeks, he only worked an average of twenty hours, sometimes less, and his hours were very flexible. Only in the weeks leading up to one event or another did Harry put in a full forty hours, and there were only six events a year, two per age group. It hadn’t always been that way. In the early days, there had been long days, but after the first couple years the groundwork was firmly in place, and his workload was much lighter. It had given him the invaluable chance to be around a lot for Teddy and, once they’d started arriving, his nieces and nephews. 

“I’ve got a good feeling about the match. I think things are going to turn around for the Cannons,” Harry insisted.

“Get real, Harry. The Cannons are the worst team ever.”

“Hey! We’ve won the League Cup twenty-one times!”

“Yeah, but the last time was in the 1890’s.”

“Bah, the Twentieth just wasn’t our century. You wait and see. They’re going to start winning.”

“Yeah, sure, Harry. You just keep those fingers crossed and keep hoping for the best.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco stood in front of the lift with Scorpius at his side. His son had a small, child’s Golden Snitch charmed to hover close to him, and he was delightedly catching it and releasing it over and over again. Without fail, every time he caught the little winged ball, he grinned up at his father. So absorbed in his game was he, that he never noticed the glares people gave them. But Draco had.

He hadn’t intended to bring Scorpius with him when his probation officer had requested he come in, but when he’d told his son he had to go out, Scorpius had asked so excitedly to go too that in the end, against his better judgement, he’d agreed. Scorpius had him wrapped around his little finger and always had, since the first time his pudgy little hand had gripped Draco’s finger when he’d been only minutes old; there was no denying that. Draco glanced around them wearily. There had been scowls and long, cold stares from several people, and in the short time he’d been standing waiting for the lift, twice had someone joined them only to hurry off the very moment they took notice of whom it was they were standing next to, preferring to take the stairs rather than share a lift with the likes of him. He placed his hand protectively on Scorpius’ shoulder and drew him closer.

Just as the lift arrived, Draco heard voices approaching, and his spine stiffened in recognition of one of the voices. He didn’t care if it was childish. He didn’t care if it was hiding. He wanted to grab his son, hurry into the lift and press the button for the Eighth Floor before the newcomers could reach them. Pride be damned. Hadn’t he lost that long ago anyway? He was still seething after his meeting with his probation officer, and the last thing he wanted to do before he left England was to run into Harry Fucking Potter. 

There were four people on the lift when the doors opened, all of whom started visibly as he stepped on, and all of whom promptly stepped off. A number of pale purple interoffice memos fluttered in the air above him, drawing squeals of delight from his son, and Draco pressed the button for the Atrium repeatedly, hoping the doors would close before Potter reached them and the memos would be all they had to share the lift with.

As per normal, luck was not on Draco’s side.

“Hold the lift, please!” he heard Potter call out. He made no attempt to do so, but at the last moment, Potter’s hand grabbed the door just as it was nearly closed, and it slid open once more.

Draco swore under his breath. He had so nearly avoided the git.

Potter entered the lift without so much as a glance in Draco’s direction. He was discussing Quidditch with a teenage boy, and for a period of maybe five seconds, Draco dared to hope that perhaps if he and Scorpius just slipped back a few steps, they might reach the Atrium without Potter ever noticing him.

“Hey!” The boy with Potter laughed as he noticed Scorpius playing with his Snitch. “I had one of those! Remember, Harry?”

Draco clenched his jaw so tightly his back teeth ached. 

With a friendly smile on his face, Potter turned his head and looked down at Scorpius. Draco saw his face freeze as looked from Scorpius to him. 

“Malfoy,” he said, surprised, as if Draco had no business being out in public and taking up precious space. 

Before the awkward moment could drag on, the lift screeched to a halt with a loud bang so suddenly it almost knocked Scorpius off his feet.

“Daddy!” he cried, reaching both hands up to his father.

At the same moment, Potter swore loudly, censoring himself just in time with a quick glance at Scorpius. “Oh, Merlin’s hairy b—er, back. Er, sorry, Draco,” he apologised for the near slip.

Draco lifted his son into his arms. The child’s eyes were wide with fright, and he held his Snitch tightly in his grasp. 

“Shhh. It’s alright, monkey.” Draco soothed him, rubbing his back and promising, “They’ll get it going again in just a minute.” He was promising himself the lift would be running again any moment just as much as he was his son. He couldn’t get away from the Ministry fast enough. 

“Oh, hey. It’s fine. Really, nothing’s wrong at all. I promise,” Potter said to Scorpius. “Just someone’s idea of a joke, is all.” Turning to Draco, he explained, “its Magical Maintenance. They’re angling for pay raises again. They’ve moved on from enchanting all the windows to show nothing but hurricanes and have taken to doing things like halting the lifts every now and then for a minute or two or causing sudden snow showers in the corridors. Really, they’ll start it up again soon. They’re looking to annoy people, show us all what we’d have to put up with without them, but they don’t cause any real problems.”

Potter waived his wand, and a large, white stag erupted from the tip like wisps of glowing smoke. The stag pranced importantly around the very limited space inside the lift, drawing squeals of laughter from Scorpius. 

“Do you like him?” asked Potter with a proud smile on his face. He spoke to the creature, demanding the lift be got going again immediately, that they were scaring a child, and in the blink of an eye, the stag ran toward the front of the lift and through the door, carrying its magical message. “That should speed things up,” he said.

“I’m not scared,” insisted Scorpius, defiantly lifting his chin and folding his arms in front of himself, but making no move to get down. Draco shifted his son’s weight—he was heavier than he used to be, but it had been so long since Scorpius had wanted to be held, Draco was in no hurry to put him down.

Potter winked at him and, with a jerk of his head toward his companion, whispered, “I meant this one. But don’t let on, okay?”

“Oooh.” Scorpius nodded his head sagely, as if he’d been let in on a very important secret. He leaned toward Potter from his perch of safety in his father’s arms. “Okay,” he whispered conspiratorially. 

Potter smiled. “There’s a good boy.” Turning to Draco, he said, “Merlin, Draco, he could be you shrunk down.”

Draco’s only answer was a curt nod of acknowledgement. If Potter thought they were going to stand here talking like old friends catching up after running into each other, he was sorely mistaken. 

However, Scorpius was only too eager to talk. “Daddy and I are going on an adventure!” he chirped excitedly.

“Scorpius, you mustn’t bother Mr. Potter,” Draco admonished his son. Surely, someone must’ve got Potter’s Patronus by now? Why wasn’t the bloody lift moving yet? Once they’d realised they’d inconvenienced Saint Potter with their hijinks, surely the entire maintenance department would be tripping over each other in their haste to get the damn thing running again. So, why the hell weren’t they moving yet!

“Oh, it’s no bother. I love kids.” To Scorpius, Potter asked, “Is that so? I bet that will be fun.” Addressing Draco again, Potter commented, “I didn’t know you’d had a son.”

“Odd, that. You were, of course, the first one I sent a birth announcement to. The owl must have got lost.”

Potter ignored the quip, which irritated Draco further. 

“Do you like Quidditch?” Potter asked Scorpius, who beamed with excitement. 

“I’m gonna be a Seeker!”

“ _Going to be_ , Scorpius. We do not say _gonna_.” 

“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Potter asked. 

Draco bristled. Did Potter expect him not to correct his son? He hadn’t scolded Scorpius, just corrected him. Just because he was raising his son to speak properly— 

When were they going to get the blasted lift moving!

“Your daddy and I were both Seekers when were at Hogwarts, and your daddy was the best I ever flew against,” Potter said.

Draco had been about to say something to Potter about child rearing, but the words died in his throat and were forgotten. Had Potter just complimented him?

“Daddy took me to a zoo,” Scorpius said. “I like the elephants.”

“Like the elephants, do you?” asked the boy with Potter. “Watch this, then.”

Without using a wand, the boy’s head began to change. His skin turned grey, and deep wrinkles formed. His face elongated and widened. His ears grew large and floppy. His nose stretched until it hung to nearly his waist, and long white tusks extended from his upper jaw on either side. The boy’s head had become that of an elephant. He lifted his trunk and let out a loud trumpeting noise.

Scorpius was thrilled, bouncing with glee in Draco’s arms and clapping his hands. 

Potter grinned with pride at the boy as his head returned to normal.

“Teddy’s a Metamorphmagus,” he explained. “Ron and Hermione’s kids love elephants too, so that one he’s got down pat.” Potter paused for a moment. A look of unease passed across his face for barely a second before vanishing. “This is my godson, Teddy Lupin.” 

“Animals with skin are easy. It’s the ones with fur that are hard. Although, I can do a pretty mean looking wolf,” Teddy said with a defiant glint in his eye.

“Teddy, this is Draco Malfoy,” Potter introduced. 

A look of recognition registered in Teddy’s face which Draco knew the boy would see in his own. 

Long dead voices echoed in Draco’s ears—one a gloating, snake-like hiss, the other a sycophantic purr. 

_My Lord, it is an honour to have you here, in our family’s home. There can be no higher pleasure,” said a woman with a simpering drawl._

_“No higher pleasure . . .” repeated that horrible sibilant voice that even after all these years sent a spasm of fear through Draco. “. . . even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?”_

_“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”_

_“I’m talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud.”_

_Horrible, jeering laughter erupted._

_“She’s no niece of ours, my Lord,” cried the woman. “We—Narcissa and I—have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood.”_ Draco’s stomach twisted at the memory of the odious word. _“This brat has nothing to do with us, nor any beast she marries,” the woman insisted._

_“What say you, Draco? Will you babysit the cubs?”_

“I’m Scorpius!” his son introduced himself happily, pulling Draco from the nightmarish memory. 

“Very pleased to meet you, Scorpius. I’m Harry.”

Draco didn’t know why, but he tightened his arms around his little boy. Why hadn’t they got the lift moving yet!

“You’re Gran’s sister’s son,” the boy—his cousin—said. 

Draco waited. He waited for the accusation, for the open hostility. But none came. When it became apparent that the boy wasn’t going to follow up his observation with recriminations, Draco fumbled for something to say, but his son spoke again before he could.

“Daddy promised to take me to a Quidditch match!”

Draco chastised himself. He should have taught Scorpius not to talk to strangers better, but he couldn’t blame the child. Scorpius had met so very few people—and most of those had been Draco’s disastrous attempts at hiring him a tutor—that meeting someone who spoke kindly to him, who showed an interest in him and asked him questions, had enthralled him.

“Is that so?” Potter asked. “What’s your favourite team?”

“United!”

“Oh, not you, too!” Potter bemoaned. “That’s Teddy’s as well.”

 _Well_ , Draco thought to himself absently, _at least the kid can pick a Quidditch team._

“Harry, here, actually thinks the Cannons can beat us. What do you think about that, Scorpius?” Teddy asked.

Scorpius pulled a face.

Draco spluttered, “Potter, you daft fool! The Cannons couldn’t beat a squad of blindfolded Hufflepuff First Years with a Seeker with his hands tied behind his back! And you think they could beat United?”

“Hey, the Cannons aren’t that bad!”

“Not that bad? They’re in last place, and United’s in first!”

“Second to last,” Harry corrected.

“By twenty points,” Teddy chimed in.

“Traitor,” Harry accused. “You used to be a Cannons fan until United stole Willingham.”

“We didn’t have to steal Willingham, Harry. The Cannons are so bad, he ran away screaming.” 

“How long until you go back to Hogwarts?” Harry asked Teddy drily. 

“Daddy and I are gonna listen to the match on the wireless when we go home. We always listen to the matches,” Scorpius said happily, “and we have cauldron cakes and ice cream on the lawns.”

“Is that so? Teddy and I are going to the match,” Potter boasted.

Scorpius’ eyes widened comically. “Really?” he asked. 

_Bloody Potter!_ Draco would love to be able to take Scorpius to a Quidditch match. As soon as they settled wherever he chose to go, he would do just that. That would be one of their first orders of business. _Maybe Australia? Can’t get much farther from England than Australia. Maybe New Zealand?_

“You know, Scorpius,” Potter said, “they have really good cauldron cakes at Ellis Moor. We have extra tickets. If you and your father would like to come with us, you’re more than welcome.”

Scorpius was overjoyed. 

Draco was not. 

“Daddy! Harry said we can go to the match with them! Please, can we go? Please, Daddy!” 

Draco gaped. Was Potter mad? Did he have no idea of the chaos that would erupt were he to walk through a crowded Quidditch stadium? And what on earth gave him the idea Draco would want to spend potentially hours in his company? Had he done or said something that gave Potter the idea he was glad to see him? And what was wrong with him—asking a child without the parent’s permission! Did he have no sense at all? 

What was Draco thinking? This was Potter—of course he had no sense at all.

When he finally got off this damned lift, Draco was going to give the maintenance department a piece of his mind. He might as well have a little fun with his reputation as a Death Eater before he left the country, he reasoned, put it to use to scare the piss out of the first poor bastard he saw in a navy blue robe.

Draco didn’t often deny his son anything that was within his power to give him. For all that Scorpius resembled Draco at that age physically, their personalities were night and day. Scorpius was such a good-natured and easily pleased child, he didn’t ask for much, and Draco knew how much Scorpius was looking forward to his first live Quidditch match. That was what made it so hard for him to say no now. 

Before Draco could refuse, Potter said, “I’ve a private box, right at mid-pitch. No one else could make it today, so it’s just me’n Teddy. There’s plenty of room. It’s a shame to let all those seats go to waste.”

Draco had been to the pitch at Ellis Moor with his parents numerous times. He was familiar with the private boxes. His refusal briefly caught in his throat. When they said private, they meant it. Each box had its own entrance, and the occupants of the box were not visible to the rest of the stadium. The Minister of Magic himself could have an orgy with a herd of Centaurs in one of those boxes, and no one would know.

He felt himself waver. 

He could give Scorpius the experience of seeing a Quidditch match in person, even if he would have to endure Potter to do it. It could be the beginning of the adventure Draco had promised him. A proper farewell to not-so-Merry Ol’ England.

A little voice inside his head screamed at him. 

_Potentially hours with Potter! Hours! You cannot possibly be considering this! This is POTTER!_

Yes, watching a Quidditch game with Potter could mean having to spend potentially hours with the speccy git, but those hours would be spent watching Potter watch his team get pummelled. 

There had to be a little fun in there somewhere, didn’t there?

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. We’d be delighted. Thank you for the invitation, Potter.”

With a jolt, the lift sprang back to life just as abruptly as it had stopped.

_Now they get the ruddy thing going. ___

__

____

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Dempsey has possession of the Quaffle! She dodges a Bludger from United’s Hollyfield—oh, nice bit of flying, that!” shouted the announcer at the top of his lungs. Harry was on his feet, cheering loudly with the small but vocal minority of spectators supporting the Cannons. “And Dempsey streaks like lightning towards United’s hoops! United’s Smithson cracks a Bludger right at Dempsey! Intercepted by the Cannons’ Beasley and knocked safely away—oh, nice bit of defence of his Chaser, that! Did Beasley fly to the Bludger or Apparate there—he got to it so fast! Dempsey shoots—no, she feints! Dempsey throws the Quaffle to Altidore! Altidore takes aim—he shoots! No—he feints, too! Altidore passes back to Dempsey! Dempsey shoots! She scoooores! Oh—nice bit of offence, that! Dempsey and Altidore had United’s Keeper flying in circles! The score is now Cannons—290, United—only 120! The Cannons are having their best match in over a century, ladies and gentlemen, and flying rings around first-place United! Somebody check their pumpkin juice for polyjuice!”

Grinning widely, Harry sat down as United’s disgruntled Keeper threw the Quaffle back into play.

“I don’t want to hear it, Potter,” Draco grouched. 

“I didn’t say a word,” Harry insisted with a look of pure innocence.

“You thought it.”

Harry opened his mouth to deny it but closed it again. “Okay, yeah. I did. But I didn’t say it, at least.”

Draco harrumphed. 

Harry glanced at Draco out of the corner of his eye.

“Quit staring at me, Potter.”

“I glanced at you, Draco. I’d hardly call that ‘ _staring_.’”

“Quit glancing at me, then.”

Harry smiled. He found he rather liked that there was still something of the old Draco in the new. He was still snarky, still irascible. Harry glanced at him again. It would be wrong to say the years had been kind to Draco, Harry was sure, but the man looked good in spite of what he’d been through. He sat as straight as ever, his shoulders strong and squared. He held his head as high as ever. Harry admired him for that.

Harry had casually dated and had even had a couple somewhat more serious relationships in the years since he’d admitted his preference for his own sex to himself and his friends. Sitting next to Draco now, Harry suddenly realised just how many of the men he’d dated had been fair-complected.

He cleared his throat and looked away. There were some places it was better to not venture.

“Teddy’s great with kids,” he commented needlessly. Draco could see for himself how good Teddy was with Scorpius. A Quidditch match was a long afternoon, especially when your team was playing poorly, and the effort United was putting forth had only limited power to keep the boys’ attention. The cousins sat together, with Teddy entertaining Scorpius by changing his appearance to one animal after another, drawing peals of laughter from the young boy.

Harry watched the game, but his mind was more on the man seated next to him and his young son. He wondered where the child’s mother was. Draco hadn’t mentioned a wife or girlfriend when he’d accepted his invitation or sent word to anyone that they would be returning home later than planned. Any witch Harry knew would have used her husband’s entrails for potions ingredients if he’d taken the kids to a Quidditch match without sending word—or sending for her to join them. 

“I’m really glad you came, Draco. I have to admit, I didn’t think you would.”

“Sorry you asked, are you?”

“No! Didn’t I just say I was glad you came?” Harry laughed like a nervous teenager with a crush. He cleared his throat again. Why had he ever had to notice how strong Draco’s shoulders looked? If there was one man on earth whose shoulders he should absolutely not be noticing, it was Draco Malfoy. “I . . . I was a little afraid to ask. It was kind of like being fourteen and asking Cho to the Yule Ball all over again. You know? That feeling if you ask, you’re going to get laughed at?” Harry wanted to kick himself. That had not been the best example to give.

Draco laughed sardonically. “Why, Potter. I had no idea you felt that way about me.”

“What? No! I just—it was just an example!” There would be no end of hell to pay if Draco ever suspected the turn his thoughts had momentarily taken, and Harry didn’t want that. Not when the past couple hours had gone smoother than he could’ve hoped. That Draco had even agreed to come had been a surprise; that the afternoon had been mostly pleasant boded well, Harry hoped. If there was undeniably some awkwardness or a feeling of treading on eggshells, that was hardly surprising given their past, was it? And if when Harry tried to start a conversation, Draco’s end of that conversation was somewhat stilted and clipped, that could hardly be surprising either. He had to be wondering what had possessed Harry to invite him and his son to a Quidditch match seemingly out of the blue. 

Scorpius laughed out loud at Teddy, who had turned his hair the same white-blond colour as his, drawing both Harry’s and Draco’s attention.

He glanced once more at Draco. As he watched his son, Draco almost seemed to forget Harry was there. His entire countenance changed. He had the same look of absolute love for his child on his face Harry’s friends had on theirs when they looked at their children. 

“I really am glad you said yes. I’m glad we ran into each other. I’m glad Teddy and Scorpius had the chance to meet each other.”

“I’m glad you’re so glad, Potter.”

“Scorpius seems like a really great kid,” Harry said, hoping to get Draco talking. If there was one thing no parent could resist talking about, in his experience, it was their children.

Draco looked at him suspiciously. “And it surprises you that a child raised by someone like me could be a good little boy?”

“What! No! That’s not what I said, and it’s not what I meant.” Harry was surprised at the level of defensiveness he heard in Draco’s voice. “I’ve seen what it takes to raise a kid, and from what little I’ve seen of Scorpius so far, you’re doing a great job.”

The suspicion in Draco’s eyes doubled. “What you’ve seen of him ‘ _so far_ ’?” The misgivings on his face were so strong, his body language so taut, like a spring coiled too tightly and ready to snap, that for a second Harry actually thought Draco might jump to his feet, grab his son, and Apparate away with him. 

Harry breathed deeply. _No putting it off, I reckon. Right. Here goes, then._ “Look, Draco. Here’s the thing. The truth is, there was a reason I invited you to join us. I’m the first one to know that family doesn’t have to mean blood, and Teddy’s got a big extended family in the Weasleys. Molly and Arthur are second grandparents to him. He’s got aunts and uncles and loads of cousins. But as far as blood family, all he’s got is his grandmother. And you—well, and Scorpius too, of course, but we didn’t know about him. And, well, he’s been wanting to meet you.”

“The infamous Malfoys. I bet his grandmother is less than pleased,” Draco scoffed. 

“Actually, Andromeda has been talking about how best to contact you. Today was real a stroke of luck.” 

Draco didn’t look like he felt that way at all. 

“C’mon, Draco. I mean, just look at them together.” Harry nodded towards the boys. “They get on great already. They’re cousins. They should have a chance to get to know each other.”

Draco watched the boys interacting as easily as if they’d always known each other. He hadn’t said no immediately, and that, Harry hoped, was a good sign. He turned his attention to the boys. If someone had told him twenty years ago he would be inviting Draco Malfoy and his son to be a part of his godson’s life, he’d have rushed them to the hospital wing. But things like wars and experience, and years and perspective, have a way of changing one’s way of thinking. 

“And the Weasleys? Don’t tell me they’re fine with the prospect of the boy being influenced by the likes of me.”

“They respect Teddy’s wishes.”

Draco turned to face Harry. His face was covered with scorn. “And you? You must’ve been apoplectic at the news your godson wanted to cavort with a known and dangerous criminal.”

“Do you seriously think I would’ve asked you to join us today if I was against it? I respect Teddy’s wishes as well, because I understand them.” Harry thought of Dudley. He could certainly understand Teddy’s wish to meet Draco. Having sought his own cousin out after the war, even if only to see him one last time and let Dudley know he’d survived, how could he oppose Teddy in this? It had taken time and effort on both sides, but he and Dudley had formed a comfortable relationship in spite of their past, even working together, forming a bridge between their two worlds to ease the difficulties faced by families split between the two. 

Of course, it went without saying that if Draco ever did anything to hurt or endanger Teddy, Harry would blast him into pieces.

“What do you say?” Harry asked after a moment’s silence. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Potter, but Scorpius and I are leaving.”

Harry sank back into his chair. Realistically, he hadn’t expected Draco to agree, but he had hoped. He was disappointed, and he knew Teddy would be as well. The two boys had hit it off so well. At least, despite his words, Draco hadn’t made any move to collect his son and leave the stadium. “I understand. If that’s your decision, of course, we’ll respect it and not try to change your mind, but, do please stay. Look at them together. At least stay for the rest of the match.”

“You misunderstand me. We’re leaving England.”

“You’re . . . leaving England? But, why?” Harry was surprised. He’d expected Draco and his mother to leave England immediately after their trials. Merlin knew the others who, like them, were known to have fought for Voldemort but had not been convicted of a crime due to some mitigating factor had fled at their first opportunity. However, Draco and his mother had stayed. Narcissa Malfoy had died seven years ago—Harry had gone to her funeral to pay his respects to the woman who’s love for her son had so dramatically influenced the outcome of the war. He wondered why now, after all this time, Draco had decided to leave.

Contempt so strong it made Harry feel small radiated from Draco’s eyes. “You can ask me that?” He roughly pushed the left sleeve of his robe up to his elbow and held his arm out.

“That was fifteen years ago.”

Draco scoffed. “Please, do take out an advert in the _Prophet_ informing people of that, Potter. I don’t believe they’ve heard.”

Harry hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the towheaded little boy smiling happily up at his newfound cousin.

Draco nodded his head angrily and whispered so as not to be overheard by the boys, “Got it in one. I can’t even hire a tutor for him here without her berating him because of things that happened years before he was born. He deserves better.”

An icy cold ran through Harry as Draco’s words struck him in his gut like a fist. Nothing made him angrier than someone mistreating a child. There were no circumstances which justified it; none whatsoever. It didn’t matter what Draco or his parents had done. Nor did it matter that Harry had only laid eyes on Scorpius Malfoy for the first time that very day; he had just become every child Harry loved rolled into one. Not just that; he was Harry himself. Scorpius was Harry at that age, when not one of the adults around him had noticed his aunt and uncle’s neglect and abuse because not one of them had looked, not one of them had asked questions. 

In the front of the box, the two boys cheered on United’s chaser. Teddy turned his attention to Harry and smiled, but the smile faded away as he took in the firestorm Harry was sure had to be raging on his face. Teddy’s eyebrows drew together in question. Harry shook his head and glanced at Scorpius. A look of far more experience than a boy Teddy’s age should have flitted through his eyes before vanishing so thoroughly it might never have been there. He turned back to Scorpius, ruffling the child’s hair as United scored a goal, before the little boy noticed his attention had ever been diverted. 

Harry pointed his wand at the boys. “ _Muffliato_ ,” he breathed before Draco could grab his arm. Now that there was no risk of Scorpius overhearing, he asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing that is any concern of yours—and don’t ever point your wand at my son again!”

His voice harder, Harry repeated his question.

“My son and I are none of your—”

“Dammit, Malfoy! What happened?”

Draco exploded. “Fine! You want to know what fucking happened? I’ll tell you!” He recounted how yesterday he’d gone to check on the progress of Scorpius’ Latin lesson with his newest tutor only to hear the woman viciously scolding him for a simple mispronunciation and calling him nothing but the no-good, bratty kid of a filthy Death Eater who should’ve been locked up in Azkaban where he belonged. “I threw her out of the Manor immediately. I only wish it had been through a window rather than the front door.”

Harry was livid. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were bone-white and his nails dug into his palms. He knew the anger he felt had to be plane to see because he saw Draco’s eyes widen. “What’s her name?” Harry asked though clenched teeth. No one—no one—got away with mistreating a child. 

“What difference does it make?” Draco sighed.

“What diff—” Harry had begun to argue, but he checked himself. He reminded himself that as angry as he was that someone would say such things to a child, Scorpius was not Teddy, nor was he truly Harry himself at that age. Unlike Harry, Scorpius had someone to protect him. “What did they say at the Ministry?” he asked.

“Oh, that was lovely. My probation officer nearly danced a jig when I told him I was leaving the country. I thought he might break out in song like one of those Muggle musicals as he reminded me that although I was free to leave England at any time I wished, should I decide to return, permission to re-enter would need to be evaluated at that time. Had me come to his office so he could tell me in person rather than over the Floo.”

“I meant when you filed a complaint against that woman,” Harry clarified.

“I didn’t file one.”

Harry spluttered. “You didn’t—But—How could—Why the fuck not!” He was outraged, and he was floored Draco wasn’t screaming for the woman’s head. In his place, Harry certainly would have been. 

Draco looked at him as if Harry was a particularly slow-witted child. “It would be her word against mine, and you can’t possibly be naive enough to think anyone would take my word over hers, or that they’d even care she’d said it.”

“He’s a child!” 

“Of mine.” 

“So, you’re just going to let her get away with speaking to your son like that? I can’t believe that. The Draco Malfoy I knew would’ve gone after her with everything he had.”

“And what is it, exactly, that you think I have to go after her with?”

“The truth!”

“The truth is a very convenient thing, Potter. You, more than anyone, should know that. If it isn’t convenient, it isn’t the truth.”

“Fine, if you aren’t going to do something about this woman, then I will. Give me her name, and I’ll see she’s held accountable. Anyone who could say something like that to a child has no business working with children.”

“Oh, Potter to the rescue once again. And tell me, are you going to fight all the rest of them, too?”

Harry had been about to say something, but the wind left his sails. “This wasn’t the only time, then?” _Of course it wasn’t. That’s why he’s not filing a complaint against her. He must’ve been dealing with this kind of thing for fifteen years._ Harry thought of something else. _Why is he still on probation?_ Harry was sure Draco had got ten to twenty years’ probation. After the minimum ten years, his probation was to have been reviewed, and unless he’d done something to justify the maximum twenty years, it was to have been discontinued. Harry was sure those had been the terms. It had caused enough of an outrage amongst some at the time that it would be hard to forget. It had been fifteen years now. If Draco had done anything during those first ten years to justify his probation not being discontinued, Harry was sure it would have been all over the Ministry, if not on the front page of the _Prophet_. So, why then was he still on probation? He didn’t ask Draco, but he would find out first thing tomorrow.

“No, Potter. This was not the first time, but it was the last.”

“Where will you go?” 

“As far from England as I can possibly get us.”

“How soon?”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“I don’t— I just—”

“Eloquent as ever, I see.”

“Dammit, Malfoy! This is wrong! I can’t—” Harry ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath. He forced himself to calm down. “Look. If you want to leave, leave. Good-bye and good luck. But if you’re leaving because a few ignorant—”

“A few? You think it’s a few, do you?” Draco spat.

“—bastards, then—”

“Then what, Potter? What would you have me do? Allow my son to be treated like dirt?”

“No! Of course not! I’m the one saying you should file a complaint against that woman, aren’t I?” Harry remembered Teddy as a very young child. Although Remus and Tonks had died fighting to protect their world from Voldemort, there had still been plenty of those who’d only seen Remus as a werewolf rather than the hero he was, and their bigotry against the father had been passed on to the son.

“That’s easy for you to say, Potter. You’re the Golden Boy. Perfect Potter. Saviour of the Wizarding World.”

“And I’ve the son of a werewolf for a godson. Believe me, you’re not the first person to have to deal with small-minded, big-mouthed arseholes.” 

Draco didn’t respond. Harry took the opportunity to continue.

“You can’t give in to people like them. You’ve got to force them to deal with you. The worst thing you can do is let them think they can intimidate you. They’re like dementors—they feast on negativity. Show them fear, and they’ll devour you. Hell, I think they actually get off on it.”

Harry waited for Draco to say something, but he remained silent, staring straight ahead at the match. Even though he only saw the other wizard in profile, something in the depth of Draco’s gaze and the set of his jaw made Harry hope he was at least considering what Harry had said.

“Look, like I said, if you want to leave, then by all means leave, but if you’re leaving because of the likes of that woman, then you’re making a mistake. England doesn’t have a monopoly on idiots or bigots. You’ll find them wherever you go. Knowledge of Voldemort and the war doesn’t end at Britain’s shores.”

For several long seconds Draco remained silent, and Harry waited. Finally, he slowly turned his head towards Harry. “Why do you care?” he asked.

It was a frank question, asked without accusation or bitterness but with genuine curiosity, and Harry knew he needed to answer it as honestly as it had been asked. Before speaking, he inhaled slowly, buying himself a moment. When he spoke, he said, “When I was a kid, I lived with my aunt and uncle, my mother’s sister and her husband. They felt about witches and wizards about the same as you felt about Muggles back then. They hated them, and they hated me. I endured quite a lot of abuse and neglect at their hands.”

Draco looked flabbergasted. His eyes were open wide, and his mouth hung open. He closed his mouth with an audible snap and turned away, only to turn back a moment later. 

“But it’s not just that.” Harry nodded his head toward the boys. “I meant what I said earlier, about Teddy. He’s had to deal with a lot of shit from people who can’t see past the fact that his father was a werewolf. I’ve had strangers come up to me in Diagon Alley and ask if I’m sure he’s safe, right in front of him. They seem to think if they whisper, he can’t hear them, even though he’s standing right there, and they look at him like he’s some kind of thing rather than a kid just like any other. I can’t have a child of my own. Teddy’s the closest I’ve got. So, I really do understand wanting to chuck someone out a window.”

Draco looked away. “I’m not interested in pity, Potter.”

“It’s not pity.” Harry wanted to scream, but the urge left him. He, Andromeda, and Teddy had a strong network of family and friends around them to help them in dealing with the prejudice of the world, but Draco had been facing it alone all these years. Looking at the little boy sitting beside Teddy, Harry again wondered where his mother was. “The unfairness you’ve faced has left you cynical, but kindness and friendship do still exist in the world, Draco.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I take it back, Potter, you can indeed be eloquent. Who knew?”

“I’m full of surprises,” Harry said with a laugh. 

The wind picked up, whistling around them, and the darkening sky looked like it could open up at any moment. It had been a chilly and dreary spring, wet and grey, and it showed no signs of improving any time soon. Charms and enchantments shielded the spectators from the weather, but the players had no such protection. “As much as I love the game, I have to admit, I’m damned glad I’m down here under the charms and not up there,” Harry said lightly, thinking that maybe a break from the heaviness was needed. 

“Hmm,” Draco murmured. He watched the flyers zooming around overhead as if he’d forgotten he was at a Quidditch match. He looked very pensive. 

They passed a few minutes in a mostly comfortable silence before Harry offered, “You know, if you’d like, I could tutor Scorpius for a while. Just until you find someone more qualified.”

Draco laughed. “Forgive me, Potter, but Scorpius is six years old, and I’d wager his Latin is already superior to yours.”

“I reckon it probably is, but as long as we’re wagering, I’d bet yours is superior than Miss What’s-she-called’s.” 

A flicker of a smile teased at the corners of Draco’s lips and in his eyes. 

Harry continued, “Can I teach him to ask to be passed the salt or for directions to the nearest library? No, I can’t. But I don’t suppose he’s ever going to need to ask anyone either of those things, so that hardly matters. Can I teach him enough about phonics and basic vocabulary to help him when he’s at Hogwarts in a few years? Yes, I can. That’s actually one of the things our office does, help kids from Muggle backgrounds prepare for Hogwarts, so I do have some experience. When I was a kid, we didn’t have that kind of help. It was basically just, ‘Well, here’s Hogwarts. Mind your professors and study hard, now’.”

“And what about other subjects?”

Harry shrugged. “I helped teach Teddy. No reason I can’t do the same with Scorpius.”

“And what about your real job? Or isn’t Harry Potter actually expected to show up at the office like normal people?”

“I’m not offering to tutor Scorpius from now until he starts Hogwarts, just until you’re able to find a proper tutor. Right now, this is one of our slow times at work. Things’ll pick back up in a couple months getting ready for a couple events we have scheduled for July, but until then, I’m only putting in maybe twenty hours a week, if that much, so I’ve time. Really, working with Scorpius wouldn’t be that far of a stretch from my normal job. It’d just be a couple years earlier and one-on-one rather than in a large group.” 

Harry was sure that, as far as academics were concerned, there was nothing he or anyone else could teach Scorpius that Draco couldn’t teach him himself. In fact, in most families, that was what happened. Kids were home-schooled prior to Hogwarts. They learned the basics from their parents or other relatives. That was how Teddy had been taught, a joint effort between Andromeda, Molly, Hermione, and Harry. Only amongst the wealthy families were tutors commonly employed. But Scorpius’ case was rather unique, Harry suspected. There were no other relatives to pitch in. With his parents both gone and apparently no wife in the picture, there was only Draco himself. How much interaction did Scorpius have with others? Not much, if any, Harry feared. What Harry could provide for the little boy was socialisation, time spent with a supportive adult figure other than his father. 

_And playmates_ , Harry thought to himself. He thought of his goddaughter, Rose Weasley, his best friends’ elder child. _Rose is Scorpius’s age._ Seeing the young boy sitting beside Teddy, swinging his feet and happily licking the ice cream one of the stadium’s house-elves had just delivered from the concessionaire, Harry thought of how dearly he would have loved to have had someone to play with at that age.

“What do you say? The British Museum’s magical wing has a large section specifically tailored to children with all kinds of exhibits, and the Natural History Museum’s magical zones have skeletons of dragons and an aquarium with flying seahorses and kids’ workshops on brewing potions. Teddy loved it there when he was Scorpius’ age. We can make a field trip of it—me and Teddy, and you and Scorpius, and I’ll bring Ron and Hermione’s kids too. It’s more fun for kids with other kids. Hugo’s only four, but their Rose and your Scorpius are the same age. If you do decide to stay, they’ll be in the same year at Hogwarts, so why not let them get to know each other?” 

Draco looked at Harry as if he’d completely taken leave of his senses. “Potter, do you have any idea of the riot that would break out were I to—”

“To what?” Harry retorted. “Dare to show your face in public like any other law-abiding wizard?”  


Draco didn’t answer with words, his affirmation of Harry’s question was in his body language: the set of his spine, the fierceness of his glare.

"Anyone gives you any trouble—and I’ve no doubt there’ll be some—you give them the look you’re giving me right now, and you’ll send them scurrying soon enough,” Harry joked. More seriously, he added, “You can’t stay hidden away forever, Draco. Scorpius is going to need more than a tutor in a few years. He’s going to need proper schooling. And you can’t outrun the Mark on your arm. Wherever you go, the war will follow you. If you confront people like Miss What’s-she-called head on, they slink away.”

Draco sighed and shook his head. “I must be mental to even be considering this.”

“Even if you do decide to leave England, it’ll take time to make the arrangements. Give it a go in the meantime. If it doesn’t work out, what’ve you lost?”

“Fine. Okay, fine. We’ll try it,” Draco said, exasperated. He’d agreed, but he looked far from convinced. 

In the front of the box, the two boys suddenly jumped to their feet, shouting and cheering, and drawing both Harry’s and Draco’s attention. The Seekers had caught sight of the Snitch and were flying after it. They zoomed past their box, and Scorpius shrieked with delight, jumping up and down. 

Harry lowered the _Muffliato_ charm he’d cast earlier.

Scorpius turned to his father, excited. “They’re after the Snitch, Daddy! They’ve seen it!”

Draco lifted his son into his arms to give him a better view. “Yes, they have,” he agreed. 

Everything about Draco changed when he held his son. His face was different, softer. He held his body differently. His back was still straight, and his shoulders were still strong, but the rigidity that had been in his posture while they’d talked was gone. _Fatherhood looks good on him,_ Harry thought with an appreciative sigh. He told himself it was okay to acknowledge how attractive the other wizard looked at that moment, but to give the fact more than a second’s passing notice could lead nowhere good. Harry cleared his throat and joined the other three at the front of the box. 

Both Seekers were in a dive, flying straight at the ground. Had Harry’s Seeker’s eyes not caught the little glint of gold, he’d have thought one of the two was feinting. “They’ve got it now,” he said.

Mere feet from the ground, the Snitch turned sharply and flew upwards, directly at their box. Scorpius screamed. He grabbed hold of his father, but his eyes remained fixed on the Seekers flying straight at them. The Snitch passed their box and flew toward the middle of the pitch. Scorpius laughed and clapped his hands as the Seekers rocketed passed them, both holding their brooms with one hand and elbowing the other roughly.

The Seekers were flying neck-and-neck. They stretched their arms out, gloved hands reaching for the elusive golden ball. Everyone in the stands was on their feet. The stadium roared as if it were a living creature. With a final burst of speed, the Cannons’ Seeker shot ahead of his opponent and closed his hand around the Snitch. He held it above his head triumphantly.

“The Cannons win the match!” the announcer shouted. “The Cannons win the match!” 

“He caught it, Daddy! He caught it!” Scorpius exclaimed. 

“Yes, he did. But he’s not our Seeker. He’s the Cannons, not United.”

“I like the Cannons!” came Scorpius’ response.

Draco glared at Harry as if he’d brainwashed his son. 

Harry shrugged. “I said we were going to win today, didn’t I?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Rough, blunt nails scratched down his back, the minor, stinging pain the perfect companion to the pleasure of the mouth sucking on his neck.

A storm raged outside, the wind howling like an animal, but his bedroom was warm and his bed warmer still.

Skin slid over skin. Hands gripped his arse, pushing his hips forward as the other man ground himself against him. “I am going to make this so good for you,” a deep voice whispered into his ear as fingers wrapped around him. He moaned as those fingers teased him, gripping him then releasing him, trailing along him from base to tip, and that mouth ventured from his neck, the tongue sweeping over his chest. His back arched as teeth raked over his nipples.

Rain battered his window, the sound a steady, sharp _tap, tap, tap_.

He revelled in the sensations his lover was creating in him. This . . . _this_ was what he’d always wanted. His partner was everything he’d known he’d be—rough, eager, willing, wanting—but he was also gentle and caring, and _oh, fuck_ , he was thorough. There wasn’t an inch of him from head to foot his lover didn’t excite. 

The rain continued to beat out its relentless _tap, tap, tap,_ as if the elements themselves were contriving to pull him from his lover’s arms.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap._

The noise of the wind increased as his bedroom window was opened, pulling him towards consciousness and away from his dream lover. The insistent tapping was replaced by the flapping of wings and the furious _Hoot!_ of an irate owl. 

Fully awake now, Draco rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. He resisted the urge to scream. While disgusted with himself for having dreamed of Potter yet again, he couldn’t help wishing that blasted owl had come five minutes later.

“Master is asleep and is not to be woked up. If you is to come down here, Ippy is giving you a treat and taking you’s letter,” his house-elf coaxed, but the owl continued to flap its wings and hoot loudly. After having been kept waiting in this weather, it was clearly intent on being difficult and dripping as much water as it could on the carpet before completing its errand. 

Draco wondered if the Unforgivables were only unforgivable when used on humans or if the law prohibited use against owls as well. He looked at the petulant bird and thought better of finding out. He’d expected the ruckus was being caused by the owl delivering the financial newspaper he subscribed to, having long since cancelled his subscription to the _Prophet_ , but the owl making all the racket and dripping all over his bedroom was a Ministry owl—his probation officer’s owl, to be specific. Draco stared up at the canopy over his bed and wondered what the demon sent from hell to make his life miserable wanted this early in the morning. He typically preferred to save his torments until more around teatime, as if he were saving his favourite part of his workday until last. 

Resigned, Draco sat up and held out his hand. “It’s quite alright, Ippy. I’m awake. I’ll take the letter.” He suspected the owl had instructions to only deliver the missive directly to him.

The bird landed next to him on his bed and held out its leg; its large, yellow eyes stared at Draco unnervingly, as if it held him in the same contempt as its master. The small pouch tied to the owl’s leg was deceiving. It was only one square inch in size but could carry entire files, which was what Draco found himself holding. He had expected nothing but a curt letter informing him of some new hoop his probation officer had dreamt up for him to jump through, but what he pulled out was a copy of his file, across which was written in large red letters: PROBATION DISCONTINUED.

Draco was afraid to believe his eyes. His probation officer was a spiteful bastard, and Draco would not put this being some joke he had come up with beyond the man. Opening the file, he found on top of the pile of fifteen years’ worth of summonses and reviews a letter addressed to him.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_This letter is written to inform you that after careful review and consideration, it has been determined that the terms of your probation have been adequately fulfilled, and the decision has been made to discontinue your probationary status effective immediately. Enclosed, please find a copy of your file in its entirety._

_Hoping you are well,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Cuthbert Fowler_

Draco’s mouth went dry. He half feared he was still dreaming. He sat in his bed holding the letter, staring at it for he didn’t know how long until he realised his house-elf was still standing there.

He forced his attention away from the letter he’d have sworn would never come. “Yes, Ippy? What is it?”

“Master Scorpius is being awake and is being playing in his bedroom.”

“Very good. We’ll breakfast in half an hour, if you would please inform Tinky.” After reading his letter twice more, he called out to his house-elf. With a soft pop, the little creature reappeared. “Please tell Tinky we’ll be celebrating this morning. Something a little more special than porridge and toast, perhaps?”

“Yes, Master.” 

Draco expected the little elf to disappear; when it did not, he asked, “Yes, Ippy? Is there something else?”

“Young Master Scorpius is being wanting to change the colour of his bedroom. Ippy is being wanting to ask Master first.”

Draco laughed. His son changed the colour of his bedroom frequently. “Make it any colour he wants.” 

The elf disappeared. 

Flopping back on his pillows, Draco closed his eyes. This was worth having had his dream interrupted for. Still scarcely able to believe it, he read the letter one more time. It hadn’t changed. The words were all still there, and they were all still the same. Part of him had feared the letter and his file had been an elaborate prank thought up by Fowler, and they’d been charmed to read one thing initially only to change to something entirely different a minute or two later.

“Probation discontinued,” Draco said to himself. He laughed. “Probation bloody discontinued!” _No more Fowler. No more summonses to “see me in my office at your earliest convenience, Mr. Malfoy.” No more reviews. No more accounting for every moment of my time. “And what have you been up to, Mr. Malfoy?”_

Draco picked up his file. He’d have loved to chuck the whole blasted thing in the fireplace and burn every last parchment, but he knew better. Throwing off his covers, he rose and picked up his wand from the table beside his bed. He exited his bedroom and passed through to his study, a large, comfortable room with heavy, mahogany furniture and sage green walls. In the far corner sat his desk, behind which hung a large portrait of his parents.

“Oh, darling, please do say you’ve changed your mind,” his mother fretted. “England is your home.”

“Now, Narcissa, we’ve discussed this. He must do what he feels best for himself and his son,” Lucius Malfoy said to his wife, not unkindly. 

“Good morning to you as well, Mother, Father,” Draco said with smile. 

“Well, my word, you are looking quite happy this morning. And you’ve had a nice lie in,” his mother observed.

“Have I?” Draco questioned. “ _Ouvert, s'il vous plait_.” 

The portrait of his parents swung open, revealing a large vault into which Draco placed his file while reciting the letter from his probation—his _former_ probation officer.

“Oh, darling! Oh, but that’s wonderful!” his mother exclaimed, clasping her hands in front of herself. “It’s about time, too. Now there’s no reason for you to leave.”

Draco closed the vault, and his parents’ portrait swung back into place. “A piece of paper will do little to change people’s opinions, Mother, but I am very happy that at least that one trial is over.” 

His father had not commented on the sudden, surprise termination of his probation, but the look of self-loathing on his face spoke volumes. Draco lowered his eyes. It pained him to see his father so wretched. Lucius Malfoy had lived his life scheming, always on the lookout for some opportunity to advance the Malfoy family’s standing in Wizarding society, but far from the further elevation of his family, the end result of his lifetime of collusions and plotting had been nothing but their utter ruination. 

Lucius Malfoy had done terrible things, but so had many others. His actions had weighed heavily on him in the last several months of his life. During his incarceration in Azkaban, he had fallen victim to a severe respiratory illness, which had spread from his lungs to other organs and finally his bones. He had survived, but his health had been severely impacted. Badly weakened, he had never been well again, and days after the completion of his wife’s and son’s trials for their actions during the war, he had died. Before his death, he had repented, which was more than others who walked around wrapped in their cloaks of self-righteousness could say. Wherever his father was, Draco hoped he’d found peace. He hated to think of his father forever lamenting things that could not be changed the way his portrait did.

“Father, you mustn’t continue to punish yourself.”

“Who should be punished if not I? You would not have had to endure the abuse you’ve been subjected to all these years were it not for my mistakes. It is I who should have borne that abuse, not you, and certainly not Scorpius.”

 _“I endured quite a lot of abuse and neglect at their hands.”_

The words Potter had spoken yesterday flashed through Draco’s mind. The blunt statement had shocked him. Once, when he’d been younger, he’d have received such information with glee. He’d have seen the knowledge that Harry Potter had been abused as a child as something that he could exploit. His school-aged self would probably have taken the information directly to Rita Skeeter to humiliate Potter. Now, though, older and—he hoped—wiser, it saddened him. It was because he was a father himself now, he supposed. 

Placing her hand gently on her husband’s shoulder, his mother changed the subject. “Your father and I have been visiting Scorpius in his bedroom whilst you have been having your lie-in. He has spoken of nothing but the Quidditch match and his new friends all morning. I will never pretend to understand the appeal of chasing a little winged ball through the air for hours on end, but I am delighted he has made some little friends and that you both had such an enjoyable day out. You must tell us who this Teddy and Harry he speaks of so fondly are. Who are their parents? Are they anyone we might know?”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. He sat at his desk and sorted through some parchments, stalling for time. How to answer his mother? Scorpius had talked of little other than “Teddy this” and “Teddy that” all yesterday evening. It was understandable that his parents were under the impression he was talking about children his own age. Merlin knew there had been a tidal wave of baby boys named after Harry Potter in the years since the war.

Divided from one another though they had been for so long, his mother had grieved for her sister’s pain when she’d learned that not only had her sister lost her husband, the man she’d left her family for, but also her daughter and son-in-law. Draco had never met the Tonkses. He’d known of them, although they’d been almost never spoken of. But Lupin, the werewolf . . . him, Draco remembered clearly from the one year he’d taught at Hogwarts. Knowing what he now knew, Draco was ashamed to think of how he’d taunted the man for his shabby robes.

“Scorpius said this Teddy changed his head to that of an elephant whilst you were trapped in a lift at the Ministry. A product of that shop of the Weasleys, I imagine,” his mother remarked.

“Er, no,” Draco said, shuffling the parchments.

“No?”

“Er, no,” Draco repeated as he placed the parchments, which he’d barely taken notice of but thought might have been the latest interest statements from Gringotts, in his desk.

“No?” his mother questioned again, a growing edge of impatience in her voice. Narcissa Malfoy never had liked to be kept waiting.

Draco scratched his forehead but stopped when he realised his hand had gone directly to the spot over his right eye where Potter’s infamous scar marred his own forehead.

“Darling, what is it? What is it you do not wish to tell us?” his mother asked, the impatience replaced with a slight tremor.

Hastening to reassure her, he said, “There is nothing wrong, Mother. Please, do not distress yourself.” He sighed and turned to face his parents. “It was Teddy Lupin.”

His mother gasped, and her hand went to her mouth.

“He’s a Metamorphmagus,” Draco explained.

“Then, ‘ _Harry_ ’ would be . . .” his father stated, leaving the obvious for Draco to fill in.

“Potter, yes.” Draco wished there were more parchments on his desk he could pretend to be absorbed in.

“Draco—” his father began to caution him.

“I am not still eighteen, Father. I am thirty-three with a child of my own.”

“A child is their parents’ child whether they are eighteen or thirty-three. I do not wish to see you hurt again.”

Heat spread up Draco’s neck, and he knew his face would be tinged pink. He couldn’t pretend to not know to what his father was referring, as much as he would like to do just that. At the time, he had thought he’d kept the feelings he’d developed for Potter after his and his mother’s trials concealed from his parents. For that matter, he had been sure he’d hidden his preference for wizards over witches from them, but in both cases, his parents had known. 

“It was a foolish thought for me to have ever entertained, and it is not one I care to ever entertain again.” Remembering the dream he’d been awoken from, Draco doubted the veracity of that statement—and Merlin knew last night had not been the first time he’d dreamed of having Potter in his bed. However, of the wisdom of never venturing down that road again he was absolutely certain. He’d made the mistake of daring to hope that maybe, just maybe, Potter might have cared something for him once before. He’d known better, but Potter had stood up in front of the entire Wizengamot and defended him. He’d even gone so far as to call Draco brave, and Draco had very stupidly allowed himself to think Potter gave a damn about him. He’d not make that mistake again. Potter’s motivation for taking an interest in him now, after all these years, was his godson’s interest in his blood family, and that was just fine with Draco. A connection to Potter would help Scorpius, Draco was sure. Anything that benefited his son he would do, even if it meant tolerating the presence of the four-eyed git. Potter could have any witch he wanted, Draco didn’t care. He had his son, and Scorpius was all he wanted or needed. 

_“I can’t have a child of my own. Teddy’s the closest I’ve got.”_

For the second time that morning, Potter’s words from the day before flashed through Draco’s mind. Potter might be able to have any witch he wanted, but he couldn’t have a child. He had been surprised Potter would tell him something so personal about himself so matter-of-factly, and he felt a sickening knot form in his stomach as that question occurred to him whether Potter’s inability to father a child could be the result of having been hit with the killing curse twice. If that was the case, he couldn’t help feel deep sympathy for the man. After all, Draco had intimate knowledge of the irreparable damage a person could suffer as the result of a dark curse. He shivered. Regardless of the deceit that had led to his birth, he couldn’t imagine his life without his son. Sympathy for Potter swelled in him, but he stifled it. Sympathy might seem safe, but like gratitude, it could too easily lead somewhere else.

“How ever did it come about that you and Scorpius attended a Quidditch match with Mr. Potter and his godson, of all people?” his mother asked. 

“The Lupin boy is interested in getting to know his blood family. Fowler _requested_ ”—this was said with emphasis on the word, highlighting the inaccuracy of the term—“I see him in his office when I informed him of my decision to leave the country. Potter and the boy were on the same lift as we when it became stuck. Scorpius was frightened, and Potter was kind to him. He took advantage of the situation to grant his godson the opportunity to a chance to become acquainted with his blood relations.”

Creases of anxiety formed on his mother’s forehead. “Without thought to Scorpius’ disappointment when the boy’s curiosity was appeased? Scorpius has spoken of nothing but his new friend. He will be crushed when the boy’s interest wanes.”

Draco pushed himself away from his desk. He didn’t know how his parents would react to what he was about to tell them, but he did not reckon it would be well. 

“Potter has offered to tutor Scorpius until such time as I am able to find a permanent tutor or we do indeed leave the country. I have accepted the offer.”

“Darling, is that prudent? What qualifications does he have to tutor Scorpius?” his mother asked.

“I am absolutely certain he would never mistreat my son. There is no higher qualification. Furthermore, should I decide to remain in England, a connection to Potter would be highly advantageous to Scorpius. You must see that. It would be mad to prevent such a connection because of a . . . a disappointment fifteen years ago.” 

His parents exchanged a glance. Draco knew they were uneasy over his decision, but the discussion regarding that decision was over. 

“Now, if you will excuse me, I must dress. I told Ippy Scorpius and I would breakfast in half an hour.” Draco looked at the elaborate grandfather clock positioned between two sets of French doors leading to a balcony which ran the length of both his study and his bedroom. “Merlin’s tits!” he shouted, drawing disapproval from his mother as if he were still eleven. “It’s half past nine! Ippy should’ve woken me. How long has Scorpius been awake? He must be hungry.”

“Don’t blame Ippy. I instructed him you were not to be disturbed. You are entitled to an occasional lie-in,” his mother said. “Scorpius has been awake for an hour and a half and has been happily playing in his bedroom. As I said, we have been visiting him, and I instructed Ippy to bring him pumpkin juice and buttered toast and jam. He is perfectly well.” 

Draco relaxed. “Ippy said he wanted to change the colour of his bedroom again. What is it this week?”

His mother gave him her children-are-a-blessing smile—a smile he had become well acquainted with over the past six years—and immediately Draco knew there would be quite a sight waiting for him in his son’s bedroom.

In his bathroom, Draco stripped off his pyjamas. A hot bath had already been drawn for him, and he slid into it with a sigh. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he let himself slip under the water. He loved the sensation of being underwater, the weightlessness of it and the caress of the water against his skin. In the dream he’d been awoken from, he and Potter had been in his bed, but he could think of a great many things the two could do involving this very bath. 

Draco surfaced and wiped the water from his face. He reproached himself. It would not do to think such thoughts. He could hardly be held accountable for the turn his mind took whilst he slept, but during the day, he needed to guard his thoughts carefully, particularly now that he would be dealing with Potter on a regular basis. It was one thing to allow oneself the occasional fantasy involving someone one never expected to see again; it was quite another when the object of those fantasies was thrust back into one’s life.

Draco groaned and dropped his head into his hands, resolving to never again think of the word “thrust” whilst determining to stop himself from fantasising about Potter.

Leaning against the back of the bath, Draco closed his eyes. Returning to the Occlumency lessons he’d had when younger, he attempted to clear his mind, but the memory of his dream refused to budge. Images of himself and Potter together continued to appear behind his closed eyelids, causing his body to react. 

He sat up straight and forced his traitorous mind to focus on other things, vowing to begin his day with cold showers from now on.

Draco stepped out of the water after bathing quickly. Brushing his teeth, he made up his mind to treat Potter with cool indifference. As he chose his robes, he determinedly reminded himself Potter was his employee now, and as such, their relationship would necessarily be one of professional detachment. Tying his shoes, he insisted to himself he’d never felt anything other than a simple crush on the other wizard, that his feelings fifteen years ago had been nothing but a passing folly, the result of being saved by Potter not once but twice. Combing his hair, he reminded himself of the advantage to Scorpius in having a connection to Potter. Walking down the corridor, he resolved to think of Potter as nothing but Scorpius’ tutor. He would treat the other wizard with disinterest. Reaching Scorpius’ bedroom he—

_POTTER!_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Sorry, you went to the match with _who_ , again? How in the bloody hell did that happen?” Ron asked in disbelief.

Harry sat on the floor in his best friends’ living room, his nephew Hugo crawling all over him as if he was a human climbing frame whilst he drank imaginary tea from a plastic tea cup covered with little pink flowers with his niece Rose. He’d gone to the Ministry first thing in the morning to speak to Draco’s probation officer to ask why the former Slytherin was still on probation. It hadn’t come as a surprise to him that there hadn’t been a justifiable reason. His next stop had been Ron and Hermione’s. He had a field trip to arrange.

“Don’t swear in front of the children, Ron. You know Hugo repeats everything you say,” Hermione admonished her husband. 

His friends’ reactions were much as he’d expected they would be when he told them he’d run in to Draco Malfoy and his son yesterday at the Ministry and invited them to the match. Both were surprised, to say the very least. Ron’s surprise was, predictably, the more vocal of the two, whilst Hermione had yet to comment, although Harry could almost see the questions forming in her mind.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t understand how a quick stop at the office ended with inviting the ferret to the match,” Ron said.

Hermione shot her husband a not-in-front-of-the children look, but it was too late. Hugo piped up with, “Uncle Harry’s getting a ferret!”

“No, Hugo. Uncle Harry is not getting a ferret.”

“I want a ferret!”

“Nobody’s getting a ferret.”

“But, Daddy said—”

“Daddy was teasing Uncle Harry.”

Wrapping his arms around his nephew, Harry growled as he pulled the little boy onto his lap and tickled him, making him forget all about ferrets. 

“You must admit, Harry, it is rather unexpected,” Hermione said as Hugo broke free from the Uncle Harry Tickle Monster and ran off to play with something else. 

Harry shrugged and said, “Not really. You know Teddy’s been wanting to meet him. It seemed like as good an opportunity as any.”

“I was thinking more that it was unexpected that Draco would accept the invitation.”

Ron laughed and said, “Herm, it’s _Quidditch_ ,” as if that explained everything. He couldn’t imagine anyone passing up the chance to go to a Quidditch match—and in such prime seats, too!—regardless of who issued the invitation. To have to have worked and miss seeing his Cannons pulling off the stunning surprise upset had been as painful as having all his teeth pulled.

“I was surprised,” Harry said. “He looked at first like he thought I’d gone mental for asking, but then Scorpius was so excited, he said yes.”

“Scorpius? The kid’s name is Scorpius?” Ron asked incredulously. “What do they do? Pull out an astronomy chart every time a kid is born? What’s wrong with a nice, normal name?”

Ignoring his friend, Harry said how devoted a father Draco was.

“I didn’t know he had got married,” Hermione said, after giving her husband a pointed look with an arched eyebrow—her name was _Hermione_ after all. 

“Neither did I,” Harry responded. 

“Surprising there wasn’t something in the _Prophet_.”

“Is it?” Harry asked. If Draco had so much as bumped someone’s arm in a crowd, Harry suspected it would’ve been on the front page that he’d savagely attacked the person, but that he’d got married or had a child? News of that kind wasn’t something that would sell papers, and Harry had a feeling Draco wouldn’t have sent an announcement in to the society editor himself. 

Hermione reflected. “No, I reckon it’s not.” She stood up and collected some of the children’s toys and books that had been left lying about, putting them in their proper place. “So, what’s he like after all this time?” she asked, her mind seemingly more on her task than on her question. The trick didn’t fool Harry, though. Harry knew his friend well enough to know that the less attention Hermione seemed to pay to a question she’d asked, the more intently she was listening to the answer.

“He’s still himself . . . but he’s changed, too. Couldn’t help but do so, I reckon.” 

“Look at me, Uncle Harry!” Hugo shouted as he zipped through the air one-and-a-half feet off the floor. He had mounted his new Starlight racing trainer broom and flown it across the room, crashing into Harry.

“Hugo! You’ll hurt Uncle Harry like that! Put your broom away. You know you’re not allowed to fly in the house!” Hermione scolded her son.

“Mum’s right, Hugo. No flying in the house. You’ve been warned before,” Ron added sternly. “Now, put your broom away.” 

“He’s fine, really,” Harry said, his arm wrapped around the child’s waist, steadying him before he could fall. 

Once on his feet, the little boy sulked off, dragging his prized broom behind him. He sat in the corner of the room and pouted.

Harry loved visiting Ron and Hermione and the kids. Their house was exactly what he thought a home should be: warm, inviting, well lived-in, and with just the right amount of chaos. “This is very good tea, Rose,” he complimented his hostess.

The little girl tipped her head with a polite, “Thank you, Uncle Harry.” Rose Weasley was a little lady today. She was covered with strands of pearls and wore a small hat covered with flowers and feathers—which she’d informed him was not a hat but a fascinator—and dainty white gloves with a little ruffle at her wrists. Tomorrow, she could be covered head to foot in mud and trekking it all through the house. “Scone?” she asked, holding up a small pink plate.

“Why, thank you,” he responded, taking the pretend offering. 

“He’s still himself, but he’s changed, you say?” Hermione asked as she made a very unconvincing show of busying herself with this, that, and the other thing.

Harry grinned at her affectionately and thought about the afternoon he’d spent with Draco. “He’s definitely still proud, but it’s . . . it’s tempered, I guess you could say. It’s not . . . it’s not an arrogant, vain type of pride. He’s very defensive—hardly surprising, that, with everything I’m sure he’s had to face. He’s . . . he’s a very good dad. He mentioned Muggle musicals, and Scorpius said they’d been to a zoo. He said he liked the elephants, so it was a Muggle zoo. Can you imagine the old Malfoy sitting through a Muggle children’s musical or at a zoo?”

“So what’s the kid like, then?” Ron asked. “A right little terror, I reckon.”

“No, he’s not,” Harry said sharply, remembering all too well the nasty things Scorpius’ last tutor had said to him. “He’s just a little boy. He’s six, like Rose.”

Ron held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, mate.”

“It’s just . . . you know some of the things Teddy’s had to put up with.” Harry related what Draco had told him the last tutor he’d hired for Scorpius had said to the child.

“That’s terrible!” Hermione cried in outrage. “Something needs to be done about her—saying something like that to a child!”

“Draco didn’t say anything else specifically, but that wasn’t the first time something of that sort had happened. He said he’d decided to leave England.”

Their past aside, as the father of a child of the same age, Harry knew the mention of how Draco’s son had been treated had angered Ron as much has it had Hermione. He held his hand out to his wife, who re-joined him on the couch, and put his arm around her. He look sceptical. Like Harry, he’d joined the Aurors immediately after the war. But, as it had on Harry, the war had taken its toll on him. He’d stayed two years with the Aurors before leaving to run Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with his brother George. “I don’t know, Harry. I understand him wanting to leave, but he’s likely to run into more of the same anywhere he goes. Maybe it’s got better, but I know before I left the Aurors, the DMLE had received requests from people who’d supported Voldemort and left the country right after their trials wanting to come back.”

“That’s basically what I told him. At least, after my visit with his probation officer this morning, if he does leave, he’ll be able to come back if he wants to without a hassle.”

Hermione had been working at the Ministry in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but she’d recently been promoted to a new job within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and would likely be made Deputy Head of the department before long. She’d been working long hours since the promotion and had rewarded herself by taking a well-deserved day off since it was Ron’s day off from the shop too. Her head snapped up at the mention of Draco’s probation. “I thought he’d been sentenced to ten years?” 

Harry wasn’t surprised she knew the conditions of Draco’s probation. She wouldn’t know the sentence that had been handed down to just anyone off the top of her head any more than Harry would, but like it or not, Draco Malfoy wasn’t just anyone to any of them.

Harry outlined the details of Draco’s probation. 

“If he had done something to warrant extending his probation beyond ten years—” Hermione began.

“It would’ve been front page on the _Prophet_ ,” Harry finished.

“Which it wasn’t,” Ron provided. 

“No, it wasn’t,” Harry confirmed.

“So, then why—” both Ron and Hermione began to ask.

“That’s what I asked his probation officer, bloke named Cuthbert Fowler.”

Hermione nodded her head. “Well-named man—he’s foul, alright. I’m sure it was no coincidence Draco’s probation was assigned to him. Odious man.”

Harry smirked. “Started off bragging he could keep someone on probation for as long as he wanted, even beyond the maximum of their sentence if he chose to. Shrunk a few sizes when I asked him if he was aware abuse of power was grounds for termination.” Harry’s smirk grew. He didn’t reckon Draco would have to worry about Mr. Cuthbert Fowler any longer.

Something in Hermione’s and Ron’s expressions changed, and they met each other’s eyes uneasily.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing, mate,” Ron said unconvincingly. 

“What is it?” he asked again.

“Rose, why don’t you go get the pictures you painted yesterday to show Uncle Harry?” Hermione asked her daughter. “I’m sure he’d love to see them. Take Hugo with you.” Like most young children, Rose loved to colour and paint. She was quite the little artist, and for Christmas, Harry had given her self-refilling paint pots and her own easel, which now stood in the corner of her bedroom. 

“Okay, Mummy,” the little girl said before skipping off to fetch her pictures. She took her brother’s hand, and they went upstairs.

Once the children were out of the room, Harry said, “Okay, whatever it is, it can’t be good. What’s wrong?”

Twisting her hands on her lap, Hermione said, “Nothing’s _wrong_. It’s just . . . Harry, be careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was just something about the way you said that, and, well, you always were just a little obsessed where Draco Malfoy was concerned,” Ron said.

“And he is about as blond as they come,” Hermione added. 

“What’s the colour of his hair got to do with anything?” Harry asked, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. He knew where this was headed, and remembering how he’d taken note of Draco’s strong shoulders yesterday, he did not want to go there.

“You like blonds, Harry,” Ron said bluntly. “Always have done.”

Admitting his preference for his own sex to his friends hadn’t been the hardest or scariest thing Harry had ever done, not after the war, but it hadn’t been easy. It had been a tremendous relief to him that his sexuality had been accepted by everyone who mattered to him. The people he loved were comfortable with the fact that he was gay. Sometimes, he thought they were maybe a little too comfortable.

Harry attempted to defend himself. “I haven’t only dated blonds. Cho was hardly blonde, Neither was Ginny,” he said, pointing out the obvious. 

“They weren’t men, either,” Ron pointed out. “You like blond men.” 

“Besides, Draco isn’t gay,” Harry said. “He was married and has a child.” Harry’s cardinal rule was to never pay more than a passing glance to a straight man, no matter how attractive or appealing; it was right up there with don’t deliberately slam his fingers in doors. 

“Was married?” Hermione asked. “You don’t think he is any longer?”

Glad for the chance to direct the conversation away from the course it had taken before either of them brought up his ‘saving people thing’, Harry explained that Draco had not sent word to anyone that he and Scorpius would be attending the Quidditch match and that when he’d said decided to leave England, he’d said _I’ve_ decided, not _we’ve_ decided. “And he distinctly said it was he and Scorpius who were leaving. Maybe his wife underestimated the contempt he still faced and decided it was too much.”

“And left her child behind?” Hermione asked.

“It happens,” Ron said softly. One saw a lot in two years as an Auror, Harry knew. There were some things Ron had seen in those two years that he had confided to Harry or his brother George over a pint or two, or five or six, that he had not told his wife.

“Or maybe it was only ever the Malfoy vaults she was interested in,” Harry suggested unkindly. He knew first hand there were plenty of people out there perfectly willing to profess feelings they did not have when Galleons were involved. Without realising it, he was building a mental image of Draco’s ex-wife: a selfish, cold woman who cared nothing for either her husband or child and had only married Draco for his money. 

“So, what did Teddy think of Malfoy? His curiosity settled now that he’s met him?” Ron asked with the tone of one saying, ‘Well, glad that’s over’, after completing some particularly unpleasant task and washing his hands of it.

“Er, about that,” Harry began. “The thing is, well, Teddy and Draco’s son really got on well. You know how Teddy is with kids. He loves them.” 

Hermione appeared distracted. She looked up at the ceiling, a frown forming on her face.

“Yeah, Teddy’s great with kids. Rosie and Hugo love it when he’s home on his hols,” Ron said hesitantly. 

“And, well, you know, it’s slow at the office just now. I’ve not got a lot to do till late May or June.”

“Yeah?” Ron responded as he cast a questioning glance at his wife. 

“One of the programs we’ve got is helping kids prepare for Hogwarts.”

“Okay?”

“Which isn’t really all that different from tutoring, really. A few years later and in a group rather than one-on-one, but pretty much the same, really.”

Ron rubbed his hand over his face. “Harry, what did you do?”

“Do you hear anything?” Hermione asked.

Harry listened. “Um, no. What did you think you—”

“The kids should’ve been back down by now.”

Harry might not have had a child of his own, but he’d spent enough time around other people’s to know that as long as you could hear them, all was well, no matter how much noise they were making. It was when they were quiet that trouble was brewing.

The trio hurried up the stairs, Ron and Hermione calling out to their children.

Rose and Hugo were in Rose’s bedroom, playing with her paints. The paint was everywhere—all over the room and all over the children.

“So,” Harry asked, “is this a good time to ask if Teddy and I could take the kids to the Natural History Museum tomorrow with Draco and his son?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Daddy! Look at me!” Scorpius shouted as he zipped across what had formerly been the manor’s ballroom. Once, the large rectangular room, with its twenty-foot high ceiling, wall of French doors leading to the formal terrace and gardens, and intricately inlaid parquet floor of exotic woods, had played host to grand dinners and balls. The wealthiest and most powerful wizards and witches going back hundreds of years had been wined and dined in this room. Now, it boasted five-foot tall Quidditch rings and every cushioning and protective spell Draco had been able to find in the manor’s extensive libraries. It made a fine indoor Quidditch training pitch, in his opinion, and his son adored it.

His parents, on the other hand, were aghast at the stately room’s new role, but as Draco was now the master of the manor, an indoor Quidditch pitch the room remained. 

“You’re doing brilliantly, monkey,” Draco replied. “Keep your eye on the Snitch.” Scorpius was quite good on a broom for his age and showed potential to be a great Seeker, Draco thought proudly. 

His son was wearing the Quidditch uniform he had given him for Christmas. For the umpteenth time that day, Draco supressed a moan at the sight of the robes that, like everything else in Scorpius’ bedroom, had previously been a deep Puddlemere United navy blue but were now a bright Chudley Cannons orange. Telling himself that next week, the robes, along with his bedroom, would likely be a different colour, Draco imagined his little boy as he might look in his teens, clad in green Quidditch robes, stretching out his hand to capture the Snitch and bring the Quidditch Cup home to Slytherin. Reality barged in on his daydreaming: Scorpius would not fly for Slytherin. He would not attend Hogwarts at all unless Draco changed his mind about leaving.

A day and a half ago, he had been sure of his decision to leave England, but now he wavered. It had been foolish of him to assume that in leaving England he would leave behind the taint Scorpius had undeservedly inherited. What was the right decision—to stay, or to go? Which would be better for Scorpius? Where could he have the best opportunity to build a happy life for himself—here or abroad? Draco just didn’t know.

His house-elf appeared beside him, interrupting his self-debate. “Master Malfoy, sir, you is wanted on the Floo,” the tiny creature informed him.

Draco breathed deeply. He knew who it would be calling him. With his unexpected release from probation that morning, the already limited list of possibilities had been reduced further, and he was not expecting to hear from either his solicitor or accountant that day. Draco rubbed his eyes. He had to have been mad to have agreed to this. Harry Potter— of all people!—tutoring Draco Malfoy’s son. He could only imagine the fit Potter’s friends had to have thrown when he told them. _Maybe he’s calling to say he’s changed his mind._ Watching his son fly, Draco dearly hoped that wasn’t the case. Scorpius would be disappointed to not see who he believed to be his new friends again. 

And that, Draco supposed, was that. He couldn’t take Scorpius away from England, not now. Not if Potter was willing to keep to his end of the agreement they’d reached yesterday, at least.

“I’ve to speak to someone on the Floo, Scorpius,” he called to his son. “Ippy will watch you fly until I return.”

Draco left his son in the care of the trusted house-elf and made his way to the smaller of the manor’s two libraries, which was where he had his Floo spelled to direct incoming calls. Located in the formal wing, as were all the grand, public rooms, the ballroom-turned-Quidditch pitch was at the far side of the manor from the small library in the family’s private wing. As he proceeded down the long corridor connecting the two wings, Draco thought about the surprise it had been to see those words written across his file that morning. He had feared Fowler would trump up some reason to get his probation extended beyond the maximum twenty years of his sentence; Merlin knew, he’d eluded to being able to do just that more than once. Draco couldn’t imagine what had caused the man to suddenly—

Draco stopped in his tracks. Potter. It had to have been Potter. There was no other explanation. There was no way Fowler’s sudden and inexplicable decision to terminate his probation the very morning after Draco had run in to Potter was a coincidence. Potter had gone to Fowler and got him to discontinue his probation. A new hesitance hindering his steps, Draco continued down the corridor towards the small library. How had he not connected Potter to his probation being discontinued sooner? Potter had interceded on his behalf. It felt to Draco as if something inside him did a somersault, but he forced it down. He would not make the same mistake again.

Although it had been fifteen years, he could still remember exactly how it had felt when Potter stood up at his trial and declared himself as a witness for the defence. The whispers and murmurs of shock and anger that had rippled through courtroom after Potter’s announcement had been like the _Sonorus_ charm cast on a hundred angry bees swarming around a hive, but what Draco remembered most clearly was the silence that had fallen as Potter testified. Draco had been able to hear himself breathe, to hear his heart thundering in his chest. The sheer power Potter exuded had entranced the entire Wizengamot and every spectator. Now, older and wiser, Draco knew it had been that power that had bewitched him as well. He could not allow that to happen again.

_“All I did was tell the truth, Malfoy. I’d have done the same for anyone.”_

Draco made himself remember what Potter had said to him after his hearing. In other words— _Don’t read something into this that isn’t there and never will be, Malfoy. You mean nothing to me._

But, dammit, Potter had said other things that day as well that, try as he may, Draco could not make himself forget. He’d countered the charges against Draco by detailing the threat he’d been under if he failed and challenged everyone in the room to stand up and tell him under Veritaserum that under such a threat they’d not have capitulated. Not one person had stood up.

Potter had called him brave. He’d told them all that Draco’s actions during the war had been as brave as any he’d seen. He’d described the trio’s capture by Snatchers and testified that when called upon to identify him, Draco had deliberately lied when he’d known that his family’s turning Potter over to the Dark Lord would instantly regain them the Dark Lord’s favour. 

Potter had answered questions regarding the destruction of the Room of Hidden Things during the Battle of Hogwarts. He had reported that Draco had dragged his unconscious former friend to what temporary safety he could find in a room being devoured by Fiendfyre. He told them all how he’d felt the moment he’d seen Draco through the ferocious flames and churning smoke, clutching Gregory Goyle in his arms while trying desperately to keep them from falling. Hearing Potter dramatically recount their escape from the room, telling them all that as flaming chimeras and serpents dove at them Draco had heaved Goyle’s bulk onto Weasley and Granger’s broom before taking his hand and climbing onto the back of Potter’s broom himself, had made Draco feel it was happening all over again. He’d felt the scorching heat. His eyes, nose and throat had burned from the sulphuric smoke. He’d relived that one singular moment of desperate relief when Potter had appeared above them to save them.

Potter—the Gryffindor who valued bravery so highly—had repeatedly called him brave in front of scores upon scores of witches and wizards all demanding he be sent to Azkaban if not Kissed. Surely that went above and beyond merely telling the truth, didn’t it? Was it any wonder Draco had fallen for him? Potter had made him sound courageous when all he’d really been was a scared shitless kid who’d realised far too late how stupid he’d been. 

Draco scowled as he entered the library. He’d known Potter was straight and would never return the feelings that had sprung to life in him, but he had dared to hope for the possibility of a friendship forming between the two. His hopes fifteen years ago had been foolish and in vain, and as a man of thirty-three, he would not revisit them. Stepping in front of the fireplace, he reiterated to himself the pledges he had made earlier that morning to treat Potter with nothing but cool disinterest and detachment.

Seeing Potter’s face in the green flames, Draco forgot the vows he’d intended to keep in the forefront of his mind and remembered instead that while it had been fifteen years ago that Potter had called him brave, it had been only yesterday that he had complimented Draco’s flying.  
“Merlin, what took so long?” Potter asked jovially. His casual, easy tone was the same Draco had heard him use with his friends all throughout their years at Hogwarts. Never once had Potter spoken to him in that tone before, and hearing it now caused that something inside Draco to somersault again. “Did you walk all the way from London, or what?”

Draco schooled his features into a mask of indifference. He might not be able to prevent his traitorous mind from taking certain turns, but he could certainly prevent those unwelcome thoughts from being apparent on his face. In a cool, modulated voice that held none of the cheerfulness of Potter’s, Draco responded, “I apologise for keeping you waiting. I was in the opposite side of the manor when my house-elf informed me I was wanted on the Floo.” _There,_ Draco congratulated himself, _just the right amount of disinterestedness without sounding outright rude._

“Tomorrow alright to go to the Natural History Museum?” Potter asked. “They’ve a new area Professor Grubbly-Plank has designed, kind of a combination of an introduction to Care of Magical Creatures and a petting zoo. It’s all perfectly child-friendly, no Blast-Ended Skrewts or anything like that.”

Draco had been about to open his mouth to explain to Potter the welcome they were likely to receive were he to walk through a building packed with wizards, but his protest died in this throat when Potter continued before Draco could interrupt him.

“Ron and Hermione said we could take Rose and Hugo, so Scorpius’ll have kids his own age to go with.”

Draco could give his son his own indoor Quidditch pitch. He could buy him any toy on the market. Anything that money could provide, he could give his son. But someone to play Seekers with on that pitch or to share those toys with was something Draco could not give him.

After a pause during which Draco felt Potter was waiting for him to protest, he said with a heavy sigh, “Potter, I don’t think you quite understand. Did you happen to notice that there was only us in that lift yesterday? At the Ministry at that time of day, how unusual is it for a lift to not be full?”

“Over the years, I have alternately been the Boy Who Lived, the Heir of Slytherin, the Chosen One, and Undesirable Number One. I do get what you’re saying. I’ve had strangers stop me in the street and propose marriage, and I’ve had people stop me in the street and blame me for not ending the war sooner—as if I’d just been sitting around for seven years playing Exploding Snap when I could’ve killed Voldemort with a wave of my wand as easily as levitating a feather.” A smirk crossed Potter’s lips that reached all the way to his eyes and was so pronounced, even in the flames it was unmistakable. “Teddy and I have never-fail methods of dealing with people who feel they’ve a right to judge. Leave it to us.” 

The confidence behind the smirk on his face and in the tone of Potter’s voice sent a shiver up Draco’s spine, and before he could think of an excuse to get out of it, he heard himself saying, “Yeah. Tomorrow’s fine. What time?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As the Muggle wing of the Natural History Museum opened at 9:00 o’clock, one hour earlier than the magical wing, Potter had suggested they meet at the closest Apparition point to the museum at twenty minutes to nine. It was now ten minutes to, and Draco was still standing in the manor’s front hall with his son bouncing with excitement at his side, wishing he could muster some enthusiasm himself. Scorpius was beside himself with anticipation to be going to a museum with his new friends, and that there would be other children going was the proverbial icing on the cake.

“Is it time yet, Daddy?” Scorpius asked anxiously, tugging on Draco’s hand. 

Telling himself his reason was in case Potter changed his mind but knowing very well it was in case he changed his own, Draco had not told his son of the plans he had made with Potter until they’d sat down to breakfast. Scorpius’ eyes had widened as a thrilled expression lit up his face. “Really?” he’d asked, grinning widely. Whatever his real motivation for not telling Scorpius sooner, Draco was glad he hadn’t. His son had asked if was time to go every five minutes. A whole day of that, and Draco was sure he’d have gone mental; as it was, he felt like he had herds of angry hippogriffs charging at each other in his stomach. Draco had ventured in to Muggle London frequently before his marriage and had taken Scorpius there on numerous times, but he had limited their activities strictly to Muggle attractions, and he had taken the precaution of a few carefully cast spells to prevent their being recognised by any other wizards they might encounter. This would be the first time they would be openly amongst Wizards for any real length of time. On the rare occasions he had taken Scorpius with him to the Ministry when Fowler had requested to see him, Draco had got them in and out as quickly as he’d been able—the last time notwithstanding. 

“What if we’re late, and they leave without us?” Scorpius fretted, tugging on Draco’s hand more urgently, his lower lip beginning to quiver at the thought of missing his chance to spend the day with his new friends.

From inside one of the many ornately gilded frames that lined the manor’s corridors, Narcissa said to Scorpius, “I’m sure they won’t have left without you, darling. Now, do enjoy yourself, and mind your father.” The largely now-empty frames had once been the homes of long-dead Malfoys who had left the manor in a state of high dudgeon, vowing never to return, in disapproval of the complete about-face in ideology Draco and his mother had adopted after the war. Where their former occupants went, Draco neither knew nor cared. With an encouraging nod of her head, she said to Draco, “If you’re going, you had best be off.” 

Lucius Malfoy stood at his wife’s side. “Take care,” he said with a heavy air. Due to his grandson’s presence, he did not say more—but he did not need to. Draco knew his father’s thoughts on his renewed association with Potter. Never one to withhold his opinion, he had made them abundantly clear since yesterday morning. He did not want to see Draco disappointed by Potter again. Lucius had lived long enough to see his wife and son spared Azkaban, but he had died knowing the person who had won his son’s affection would not only never return those feelings, but would openly scorn them were he ever to learn of their existence. It vexed Draco greatly that the feelings he had thought banished forever were once again poking through the soil like weeds that had merely been cut off at ground level whilst the roots had remained strong below the surface. It was an ever greater source of irritation to him that he was equally unable to conceal those feelings as a thirty-three-year-old man as he had been at the age of eighteen.

Draco worried. What if he was no better at hiding his unwelcome but undeniably revived attraction to Potter from the man himself than he was from his parents? He forced down a wave of dread. Surely, Potter was not as astute as Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Draco couldn’t hide his feelings from his parents simply because of how well they knew him—that was certainly not a concern with Potter.

Wanting to appear excited for his son’s sake, Draco forced a smile he did not feel onto his face and swung the child’s arm playfully. “Ready to be off, then, monkey?”

His son jumped up and down in delight, and a smile lit up his face, making Draco’s breath catch in his throat. His smile was the one thing Scorpius had inherited from his mother, and the sight of that smile was a reminder to Draco of just how precious his Scorpius was. Scorpius—he was doing this for Scorpius, he reminded himself. His son was all that mattered. Draco would endure anything to ease the stigma that would plague his son for years to come. Potter was nothing, could never be looked at as anything other than the means to an end. 

Holding his son’s hand firmly, Draco took a step and turned—his mind focused on the three D’s of Determination, Disinterest and Detachment. 

A moment later, he appeared in the South Kensington Apparition centre—a large room located off a Victorian-era tunnel leading from the Muggle Underground station in South Kensington to the Natural History Museum. The _pop_ of Apparition had been so soft that Draco caught a fragment of conversation between a nearby witch and a wizard in the single second before their presence was noticed.

“ . . . not coming—” Draco overheard Granger—or rather Weasley—say to Potter.

“Draco!” Potter said with an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm. “You came. I’d begun to fear—well, never mind, you’re here now.” Still overly eager, Potter continued hurriedly, a ridiculous grin on his face, “Hermione, this is Draco’s son, Scorpius. Isn’t he the exact image of Draco?” He inhaled deeply, as if his rapid speech had left him breathless.

The Apparition centre was a fairly large sized room bustling with witches and wizards either just arrived themselves or stood about, waiting for companions. Draco was sure that the presence of two of the Golden Trio in their midst had not gone unnoticed by the small crowd before his arrival, but now that Potter had called his name, what had likely been discreet glances previously were now indiscreet gawks. 

Forcing himself not to meet the strangers’ eyes, Draco focused his attention on Granger—Weasley, he corrected himself again. She looked as if she’d just eaten the wrong Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean and bitten her tongue painfully in the process. Tension was obvious in her forced smile and in the slight crinkle at the corners of her faintly narrowed eyes, the barely-there furrow of her brow. 

“It’s good to see you again, Draco,” Granger—dammit, Weasley!—said with a valiant but ultimately failed attempt at sounding genuine. 

“And you,” Draco said, surprised to find he meant it. He was actually rather relieved at the surprise addition to their party. It had to be preferable to have a third adult to provide a distraction from Potter. The Lupin boy was there as well, but Draco was too old to think of fifteen as anything but a child, even if it was only two years away from the age of majority. “I didn’t know you were joining us today.” 

“Oh, I’m not. I’m only here to see the children off. This is Ron’s and my daughter, Rose, and our son, Hugo.” 

Draco observed the two children standing on either side of their mother; both wore expression of appraisal, but both were looking at his son rather than him. Scorpius, who had been so anxious to leave when he’d been in the safety of their home and had talked so easily and eagerly to Potter and the Lupin boy in the lift at the Ministry, had hidden behind Draco in the presence of other children, his little hands holding tightly to the leg of Draco’s Muggle trousers. Draco felt a strong urge to lift his son into his arms and Apparate them back to the manor immediately, but then his son’s voice whispered ever so softly, “Hi.” As Scorpius spoke that single syllable, one of his hands released its grip on Draco’s leg, and his son waved timidly at the young Weasleys. 

“Wotcher, little mate!” Teddy Lupin exclaimed, drawing a more confidant wave and even a giggle from Scorpius, who stepped out from behind Draco.

As in his son, Draco observed an increase in confidence in the onlookers after the Lupin boy’s greeting—whispers now accompanied the blatant staring. 

Draco blinked. His heart lurched painfully in his chest. He thought . . . He reached for his son, grabbing his little boy by the shoulder as his other hand reached for his wand. He really thought . . . There were startled cries and gasps; then, the crowd fell silent. Scorpius giggled again, louder this time. Draco resisted the urge to shake his head as if that could clear it. He hadn’t been the only one . . . He looked carefully, but there was nothing. He blinked again. He could’ve sworn . . . All around them witches and wizards Disapparated or hurried toward the exit to the Muggle tunnel, beyond which Draco could see the scores of Muggles walking obliviously past. 

Potter and the Lupin boy laughed in the now empty room. Even Granger—Weas, oh, fuck it!—had an amused expression on her face. Her children smiled widely. “Do it again, Teddy!” pleaded the girl as the boy curled his hands into claws and growled.

Scorpius jumped up and down. “The elephant! Do the elephant, Teddy!”

Draco continued to blink stupidly. It had felt like his heart had nearly jumped out of his body, and he raised a hand to his chest as if to check it was still beating where it belonged, despite feeling each _thump, thump_ all the way to his fingertips. 

The young Weasleys joined Scorpius in calling for Teddy to change the appearance of his face to that of an elephant’s.

 _“Teddy and I have a never-fail method of dealing with people who feel they’ve a right to judge. Leave it to us,”_ Draco remembered Potter saying. 

And the Lupin boy—whilst they’d been stuck in the lift, after he’d demonstrated his Metamorphmagus abilities by changing his features to those of an elephant—he’d said, _“Animals with skin are easy. It’s the ones with fur that are hard. Although, I can do a pretty mean looking wolf.”_ Draco remembered the defiant way the boy’s eyes had glinted.

“. . . okay?” Draco heard Potter ask. He felt a hand on his shoulder, a slight shake. “Draco?”

 _A little warning would’ve been nice!_ he wanted to scream. What Teddy had called “a pretty mean looking wolf” was a perfect recreation of a werewolf. It had been for just a moment—not even a moment, it had been so fast that had Draco blinked at the wrong time, he’d have missed it entirely—but for that one terrifying second, it had truly looked like the boy had phased into a werewolf. Draco swallowed hard, trying to force his stomach back into its proper place. 

“Daddy?” Scorpius tugged his hand, his voice holding a slight tremor. “Are you okay?”

Draco ruffled his son’s hair. He would have nightmares of Fenrir Greyback tonight, he knew, but he would not scare Scorpius. “Never better, monkey. Shall we be off, then? Granger, you won’t be joining us?” Draco asked, forgetting again her name was no longer Granger and the idea of addressing her as Hermione never occurring to him.

“Er, no. No, I’m meeting my parents,” she responded. Kneeling down to her children, she drew them both into hugs and kissed their cheeks. “Now, you mind Uncle Harry and Teddy, and don’t go running off.”

Both children promised to behave and returned their mother’s hugs and kisses. With a warm good-bye to Teddy followed by a much stiffer good-bye to Draco and a very pointed look at Potter that Draco would’ve loved to know the reason behind, she Disapparated. Draco felt a small amount of satisfaction that crack of her Disapparition had been louder than his.

Potter cleared his throat and cast the _Muffliato_ charm over them, explaining it would allow them to speak freely without minding what they said for fear of Muggles overhearing, as if Draco might not have known what the spell did. “Right then, let’s be off. Shall we?” he said, barely deigning to look at him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Bloody hell, he looks good in Muggle clothes,_ Harry observed to himself with an appreciative sigh. Draco in normal wizarding attire had been something to look, but Draco in perfectly fitted Muggle trousers and a simple white cotton button-down that fit his strong shoulders so well it could only have been tailor-made for him—which Harry was sure it was—was a sight to be not just appreciated but savoured. It was a shame how much robes hid, Harry lamented. Resigned to the futility of admiring what was unavailable to him, he allowed himself one last quick admiring peek. Acknowledging an attractive straight man might be acceptable, but blatantly ogling one was not.

Unsurprisingly, the pedestrian tunnel leading from South Ken Tube station to the Natural History Museum was packed, and the moment they exited the protection of the charms and spells concealing the Apparition centre, they were assailed by a cacophony of voices—dozens of conversations, all blending together in the long corridor. Above the din, Harry could hear the music of one of the ever-present buskers somewhere in the distance. As they walked, he fished around inside his jacket pocket for a few coins for the kids and grimaced as he knocked something over—the umbrellas Hermione had made him bring, he reckoned. He didn’t know how Muggles took their children out for the day without the benefit of Undetectable Extension Charms; bloody useful charm, that.

Draco walked beside him. A pace or two ahead, Teddy was surrounded by the kids, who—Harry was glad to see—had got over their initial moment of shyness and scrutiny and seemed to be getting on well. He hadn’t been worried on that score, but it was good to see nonetheless. Having been to the museum before, and being very much like her mother, Rose was giving Scorpius a detailed account of the best exhibits, with additional commentary such as “It’s wicked! Wait’ll you see!” supplied by Hugo. Scorpius played the eager student to Rose’s professor perfectly, saying “Oooh” and “Ahhh” at just the right moment, delighting the little girl.

Draco, on the other hand, had not said a word since they’d left the Apparition centre. Harry could’ve kicked himself for not warning him about just how Teddy dealt with strangers whispering and staring at them. With having had Voldemort living in his own home, Greyback would’ve been a frequent visitor. Of course even just the illusion of a werewolf would give him a terrible fright, even if that illusion had only been for a moment and he’d already known of Teddy’s abilities. Harry should’ve thought, should’ve realised. He wanted to apologise, but he reckoned doing so would only make Draco’s discomfort worse. Best, he decided, to pretend he had never noticed the ash-white colour Draco’s face had turned.

“Admission’s free, but there are some exhibitions that do require tickets, which I’ve already got,” Harry said. “It’s going to be crowded, always is on school holidays. There’ll be queues, which can be quite long, but I come here so often bringing groups of kids as part of our program, I have an annual membership which’ll let us skip the queues, at least once we’re inside.”

“How much do I owe you for Scorpius’ and my tickets?” Draco asked.

Harry shook his head. “Part of my fee.”

“We’ve not yet discussed your fee or your hours.”

“Rosie,” Harry called to his goddaughter. They had reached the busker Harry had been hearing all the while they’d been in the tunnel, and he handed Rose three coins. “Take these,” he said with a nod of his head towards the man sitting on the floor and playing the guitar. The little girl took the offered coins and skipped back to her brother and new friend. The children tossed the coins into the man’s guitar case, earning them a wink and a smile from the musician.

Harry shrugged. “Whatever arrangements you made with the previous tutors you hired will be fine, I’m sure. We’re nearly there. It’s just ahead.” Not far in front of them, a corridor branched off the tunnel, and daylight spilled in from outside, brightening a small arc around the corridor entrance. 

At the end of the corridor, a stairway led them back above ground. Outside, it was rather bright in spite of the thin cloud cover left over from the rain they’d had in the early morning hours, as the light they’d seen in the tunnel had suggested. Harry hoped it was a sign improved weather would be coming. 

The steps opened on the corner of Exhibition Road and Cromwell Road, with the Natural History Museum directly behind them. “Well, this is it. The main entrance is just there,” Harry said, gesturing down Cromwell Road.

Before they could set off, Teddy said, “Harry, isn’t that . . . ?”

Teddy was looking down Exhibition Road. Harry followed the line of his eyes, and saw what, or rather who, had captured his attention. 

_Oh, bloody fuck!_ “Right,” Harry said. “Mustn’t dawdle. Loads to see.” He attempted to hurry Draco away from Exhibition Road whilst Teddy—God bless Teddy!—followed his example and did the same with the children.

“Harry?” the man approaching them called out loudly. 

“Eight million people in London,” Harry mutter under his breath. “Eight fucking million.” 

The man coming up to them with a wide grin across his face was a Muggle called Jonathan Wrayburn. He and Harry had met some months previous at a silent auction held to benefit a children’s charity Harry had come to support through Hermione’s parents. They’d slipped out of the benefit early after placing their bids and had gone for dinner together—they’d had breakfast the next morning together as well. 

Jonathan was movie-star handsome with sharp features and deep-set ocean-blue eyes. His blond hair was thick and wavy and gleamed like strands of gold even in the veiled sunlight. He struck one at first as elegant and charming, and it was that which had attracted Harry to him, but his refined air was an illusion that quickly dissipated upon closer acquaintance. He was just about the last person Harry had expected or wanted to run into. Harry had no idea why he’d not put an end to the thing sooner—to call what they’d been in a relationship would be a stretch. The sex had been brilliant, but unfortunately, one had to get out of bed at some point, and once dressed, they’d nothing in common whatsoever. 

“Harry! I thought that was you,” Jonathan said in a bedroom voice as he drew near. With an exaggerated pout he asked, “Why didn’t you answer when I called you?” 

Harry cringed. His sexuality might not have been a secret, but he was not fond of public displays of affection, whereas Jonathan adored making a spectacle of himself—just one of the many ways their personalities had clashed. Even in just those few simple words, Jonathan had managed to convey the context of their relationship very clearly to anyone in the vicinity. Harry didn’t look around to confirm it, but he was sure passers-by had turned to look at them. 

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes in resignation, wishing they’d been just one minute earlier. Opening them again, he saw Draco look at him oddly, his lips slightly parted and an expression of surprise on his face before an unreadable mask slid over his features, closing him off and hiding whatever he might be thinking or feeling. Harry winced; he had a pretty good idea of the disapproval that mask concealed. Hermione would kill him if she’d heard him say ‘fuck’ in front of her children, and he was sure Draco was no more pleased at the use of such language around his son. Harry looked, but the kids were with Teddy, far enough off. He was sure they wouldn’t have heard, although he knew that was no excuse to let himself slip like that with the kids around. 

“It’s lovely to see you,” the man said lasciviously as he reached them, although the enthusiasm in his voice died abruptly, likely when he observed Draco standing beside him, Harry reckoned. 

“Jonathan. It’s good to see you, too,” Harry said, although nothing could have been farther from the truth. 

His eyes more on Draco than on Harry, Jonathan asked, “What brings you to Kensington?” 

“Oh, just taking the kids to the museum, you know.” 

“Oh, yes, the children.” Teddy was stood a short distance off with Rose, Hugo, and Scorpius, and Jonathan looked at them as if he was just remembering they existed. Although, to be fair, Harry conceded, they’d not been together long, and they’d already been broken up longer than their ill-fated trist had lasted. “It’s lovely to see you all again.” 

“We’ll just go and join the queue then, shall we, Harry?” Teddy called out. After a nod from Harry, he led the children down the street, talking animatedly about which had been his favourite exhibits at their age. 

“I’m just on my way to Imperial College to talk with the head of the Engineering Department,” Jonathan said in his most well-bred, self-important tone. “They’ve a post open, and while Brunel is a fine school, I don’t think it’s quite right for me. Uxbridge is so very inconvenient, isn’t it? But, now Imperial—practically right across the street from Hyde Park.” Jonathan breathed deeply and looked around, grinning as if he was the new Lord of the Manor surveying his lands for the first time and being pleased by all he saw. 

Just then, a car driving by on Cromwell Road hit a puddle left over from last night’s heavy rain and splashed water onto the pavement. The water hadn’t come close to hitting them, but it had come close enough to interrupt the image of perfection Jonathan had concocted in his head, and he scowled at the car as it drove away. 

Harry doubted Jonathan’s story was the exact truth. The man was truly brilliant—there was no doubt about that. That part of his ego, at least, had legs to stand on. Regardless of that, Harry doubted the head of the Engineering Department would personally interview him for a post. Two things Harry had come to learn his ex was very good at were exaggeration and imagining. 

As always happened with the less-than-lovely aspects of reality where Jonathan was concerned, the splashed water was soon forgotten, and he returned to his latest illusory vision of perfection. “Just picture it, Harry,” Jonathan said as if he’d quite forgotten they’d broken up. “With me working at Imperial, we could meet in the park every day. I remember how you always loved the idea of simple little luncheon picnics at the park and tea in the garden.” He had that flirting lilt in his voice which Harry had once found flattering but had come to find patronising.

“And I remember how you always preferred the Ritz or some other equally expensive place.”

“Well, one does not eat whilst sitting in the dirt, darling,” Jonathan said with a flippant laugh and the ease with which he always disregarded someone else’s preferences. “Not whilst wearing trousers from Geives and Hawkes.”

Harry wanted to roll his eyes but refrained. Jonathan was an arrogant name-dropper, condescending and obnoxious and—

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend, Harry? Allow a man to meet his successor.”

 _Oh, fuck._

Jonathan was from a very old and wealthy titled family, which he made a point of shamelessly and tactlessly informing new acquaintances. However, his particular branch of the family tree was rather far removed from the trunk, so to speak. A little fact he took pains to obscure. 

“Jonathan Phillip Wrayburn, of the Wrayburns of Cliffemount Hall, seat of the Viscount Brexstone,” he said pretentiously, extending his hand. “And . . . ,” he began to ask, drawing the question out as he ran an appraising eye over Draco that made Harry want to jump in front of him protectively, “you are?”

Harry squirmed with unease, but before he could utter a word to correct Jonathan’s mistaken impression, Draco responded, “A Viscount.” He tipped his head, but his voice was cold, and he did not offer his own name or his hand. “Lord Brexstone, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Jonathan spluttered in embarrassment and irritation. “The current Viscount is my cousin,” he had no choice but to admit, although even that was a stretch. The fact was that they were second cousins. Jonathan liked to create the impression of a much closer tie to the title than actually existed and disliked anyone shattering it. 

Harry watched the two men in amazement. He’d expected Draco to explode in outrage at the assumption they were a couple, but he was acting exactly the opposite of what Harry had presumed he would. Had Harry not known better, he’d have sworn it looked like Draco was behaving exactly as a man would do should a date he was on be interrupted by the other person’s ex.

“Oh, I do apologise. You misled me by the reference to . . . Cliffemote House, did you say it was? You would be just _Mr._ Wrayburn then, I believe. Is that correct? Not a Lord or even an Honourable.” Draco made a _tisk tisk_ sound. “So close and yet so far.” His voice dripped contempt.

After a long and uncomfortable pause, during which Harry would not have been surprised to see steam to come pouring out his former lover’s ears, Draco turned to him and, with a very suggestive look that rendered Harry utterly speechless and made his insides do backflips, said, “We’d best be getting on, Harry. The children are so excited, and as you said, we’ve much to see.” 

Feeling like he’d been hit with some combination of a Confundus charm and a Cheering charm, Harry watched as Draco turned his attention to Jonathan once more. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Redburn.” 

To Harry, he asked simply, “Shall we?” But that look was still in his eyes, and Harry’s insides did another backflip. He didn’t know what Draco was playing at with that look or why he was acting as he was, but Merlin . . . It was enough to make Harry forget for a moment that he was straight. 

_He was married. He has a child. He likes girls. Girls—not blokes. He likes cauldrons, not wands,_ Harry reminded himself, even as he could hear Ron’s and Hermione’s warnings ringing in his ears. 

_“Be careful, Harry,”_ Hermione had warned him.

 _“You like blond men.”_ Ron had pointed out.

 _“And he is about as blond as they come,”_ Hermione had added. 

_And straight,_ Harry told himself firmly. He’s also as straight as they come—there’s three and a half feet of blond-haired, grey-eyed proof of just how straight he is standing just over there. 

Draco turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of Teddy and the children without another glance at either Harry or Jonathan. Harry’s eyes followed him, only reluctantly turning away after Jonathan had called his name twice. 

“He seems charming,” Jonathan said insincerely. 

“He’s a friend.” 

Jonathan laughed. “You think that, do you?” He turned and walked off, calling over his shoulder as he went, “You’d best tell him that. Not me. I’d say wish me luck, but I think you’ll be the one needing it with that one, darling! Has a temper, hasn’t he?”

Harry ignored Jonathan’s parting words as he hurried to catch up to Draco—how had he got so far down the street that fast, Harry wondered? He was much more concerned with the rigid set of Draco’s shoulders than he was with any misconception his ex had leapt to. He had no idea what had possessed Draco to act as he had, as if he’d been playing along with Jonathan’s mistaken impression, but he had to apologise. 

“Draco, I am so sorry,” Harry said as soon as he reached him. “I had no idea—”

“They’ll be at the manor.”

“Sorry, what’ll—”

“Scorpius’ lessons. You are supposed to be his tutor, if you recall. This was your idea, not mine,” Draco spat at him. “His previous tutors have all come to the manor for his lessons. If you have a problem with that—”

“No—I mean, yes. Fine. Yes, of course. The manor is fine.” 

Harry dropped his eyes to the pavement. He’d had such high hopes for today, but it had not got off to a good start. First the incident in the Apparition centre, then Jonathan’s very unexpected arrival and Harry’s swearing in front of—or at least near—the children. It was not at all the beginning he’d hoped for.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As Harry had predicted, the museum was crowded with Muggle families. Once inside the cathedral-like entrance hall, which always reminded him of the Great Hall at Hogwarts with its massive dimensions, stone walls and gothic arches, they’d stepped aside from the crowd, and Harry had discreetly pulled a guide book from his jacket pocket.

In the centre of the hall stood the cast of a dinosaur skeleton. “Wow.” Scorpius’ eyes were wide open with amazement. “Is that a dragon, Daddy?” he asked in awe.

“No, that’s. . . .” 

Draco looked at the skeleton. Upon his silence, Harry realised this was likely the first time he had seen a dinosaur skeleton himself. When Draco had been Scorpius’ age, any trips to museums with his parents would have been strictly limited to magical exhibits, never acknowledging the Muggle displays so very close by. Harry felt a surge of real admiration towards Draco. He was not only a single father raising a lovely little boy with no help, but he was breaking with centuries of tradition and raising him to be open-minded and accepting of the Muggle world.

Draco had grown into a man he could really fall for, Harry feared. He only had that one obvious fault—he was straight. 

_Not that it matters as he doesn’t seem to be able to stand the sight of me._

Harry sighed and pushed thoughts like that to the back of his mind. His brief encounter with Jonathan had made him realise something else about himself he’d never noticed before: While he himself preferred jeans and t-shirts, he liked men who dressed well. And Draco certainly knew how to dress well. His dark grey trousers and crisp white shirt . . . Best not to go there, Harry cautioned himself. He cleared his throat and referenced the guide book he’d retrieved from his pocket. Regardless of what Jonathan chose to believe, they were on an educational field trip. 

“Do you like him, Scorpius? He’s pretty cool, isn’t he? His name is Dippy, and he’s a _Diplodocus_ , one of hundreds of types of animals Muggles call dinosaurs that lived between sixty-five and 230 million years ago. Some dinosaurs did look a lot like dragons, but we’ve no reason to believe they had any magical properties. They lived all over the world, even right here in England, but Dippy here is from North America.”

“Wow,” the little boy said, looking up at the skeleton in wonderment.

Harry felt a sigh of relief pass through him. 

“Dippy’s not a real dinosaur, though. He’s a replica. He was commissioned by an American millionaire for King Edward VII in 1905. He’s pretty big, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” the child breathed.

“As big as Dippy is, other dinosaurs were much larger. The museum has a whole gallery full of real dinosaur skeletons and even some Muggle-made replicas that move and roar like the real creatures would have. Would you like to see them?”

Harry led the group towards the Dinosaur gallery to their left. He risked a peek at Draco, who was still looking back at Dippy as they walked, his hand resting on his son’s shoulder. 

Entering the gallery, they passed under the craning neck of a giant _Camarasaurus_ , Scorpius whispering in awe as he looked upwards, “Wow. Daddy, look.” Harry again consulted his guide book to give details. 

“ _Camarasaurus_ was a _herbivore_ , meaning it ate plants rather than meat. It had very sharp teeth, like chisels, set very closely together to strip leaves from trees and shrubs for its dinner. Like dragons, dinosaurs hatched from eggs. _Camarasaurus_ eggs were no larger than a football.” 

“I’ve a football!” Scorpius said. “Daddy plays with me on the lawns at home. It’s only this big!” Scorpius showed with his hands the size of a football, but Harry’s eyes were on Draco. The image of Draco Malfoy playing Muggle football with his son had formed in his mind and would not budge.

With more effort than it should have cost him, Harry forced his attention back to the information on dinosaurs in the guide book. “In just eight years, _Camarasaurus_ grew to an average size of nine meters in height—about as tall as six adult men—and the length of two and a half London city buses.” 

The children ran from skeleton to skeleton, but like most children, their favourite by far was the _Tyrannosaurus Rex_ , especially the life-like animatronic model, which roared at them as if alive, showing off its set of sixty saw-edged, dagger-like teeth. “ _Tyrannosaurus Rex_ was the ultimate carnivore, meaning meat-eater. Its teeth could be as long as twenty to twenty-three centimetres, and it’s jaw as long as a metre and a half. That’s longer than you all are tall,” Harry laughed.

The children distracted as the animatronic _Tyrannosaurus_ swung its massive head as if sniffing out its next meal, Harry glanced at Draco, who’s own attention was for the moment directed upward on the skull of the real animal. His sharp jawline was on display as he looked up, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. Harry licked his lips, a traitorous part of his mind imagining licking that throat instead. 

_Stop it!_ he berated himself. 

“Shall we move on?” Harry asked, forcing himself to not think about the base of Draco’s throat where the topmost button of his shirt had been left open—or worse, the chest that shirt covered and how much better it would look uncovered, how it would feel under his hands. Harry forced his eyes to look somewhere else—anywhere else—rather than risk Draco catching him staring. “Upstairs they’ve a model of a blue whale, which is the largest creature to have ever lived, even bigger than the biggest dinosaurs.” 

The Muggle wing of the Natural History Museum was divided into four zones—blue, green, red and orange—each with a different focus. There was more to see than there was time in which to see it, and by mid-afternoon, Harry had guided them through the exhibits Hermione had recommended for kids their ages, which was a few years younger than he was used to dealing with through his work. They’d gone through the blue and orange zones before stopping for a late lunch and had just finished the green and red zones, the highlight of which for the kids was the earthquake simulator and a three-storey long escalator ride through the middle of a massive sculpture of the Earth, which they’d ridden three times. The wall to one’s left whilst riding up the escalator was a mural of a map of the constellations of the Zodiac, with Scorpius becoming visible beyond Sagittarius as one neared the giant sphere, which had delighted the child. 

“Daddy showed me where it is in the sky,” he’d said proudly. “Didn’t you, Daddy?” he’d asked, looking up at his father, who’d stroked his hair lightly. 

The children had enjoyed everything they’d seen and were now talking excitedly about the Magical wing. Draco, on the other hand, looked increasingly uneasy. Harry never would have thought Draco Malfoy would feel more comfortable in the Muggle world than their own, but as his obvious distress increased, it was clear that it was true.

Harry felt a growing distress of his own, but of a very different nature. With each hour that had passed, he had grown more aware that his appreciation of the man Draco had become—and how fucking good he looked in those damned Muggle clothes!—was developing from a platonic appreciation into something more. As they’d gone from one Muggle exhibit to the next, Draco had taken an interest in everything. As a boy, Draco had been taught nothing but disdain and contempt for the Muggle world, had believed Muggles to be inferior to wizards in every respect. Today Harry had seen the man that arrogant boy had become fascinated into speechlessness as his son and two children—children who, as Weasleys, he himself would not have associated with—played together on an interactive digital table designed to allow children to virtually scan inside anglerfish and a mummified Egyptian cat.

Draco, on the other hand, seemed to dislike Harry’s presence more and more as the hours passed. Harry was glad to see that he seemed to be warming towards Teddy; he even seemed fond enough of Rose and Hugo. But to Harry himself, he was, while never outright rude, certainly unfriendly. 

Harry exhaled. Draco had not been amiable towards him by any means during the Quidditch match, but the cold shoulder was giving him today was positively frigid. He might only be Scorpius’ tutor in Draco’s eyes, but in order to do that job properly, he was going to at least be able to talk to Draco without all this tension in the air between them. First chance he got, he resolved as they made their way through the crowd, he was going to have to try again to apologise for the things Jonathan had said.

Like the Ministry of Magic, the Magical wing of the museum was underground. One entered via a simple magically concealed doorway beside the museum’s side entrance which, as with the Leaky Cauldron, was only visible to those already aware of its existence. There were no passwords to give to portraits or statues or sliding stone walls, no apparently solid brick archways to pass through, no telephone booths descending through the ground. One simply opened the door and walked through. It was rather anticlimactic, Harry always thought when leading Muggleborn children to the Magical wing for the first time—nothing like tapping the bricks in the wall behind the Leaky Cauldron and watching in awe as they magically rearranged themselves, opening up a portal into a hidden world.

However, once through the door, the wonder of the Magical world was all around one. A grand stone stairway lit by enormous torches mounted on the walls led visitors down into the Hall of Portraits, a large room bright with magically-created sunlight streaming in from windows which were in reality twenty feet below Exhibition Road. Surrounding the window, the stone walls were lined with portraits of famous potioneers, inventors of spells and charms, notable herbologist and renowned magizoologists. The witches and wizards commemorated in the portraits were involved in conversation amongst themselves, all save the one conspicuously empty frame above the shining brass nameplate bearing the name SEVERUS SNAPE, whose painted image was no more of a people person than the flesh and blood man had been. Several interrupted their discussions to call out greetings to Harry. He always stopped to say hello when leading one of his groups through the museum. The moving and talking portraits enraptured the Muggle-born children. 

“Harry! Welcome back, my boy!” called Newt Scamander, a well-known magizoologist and author, with a cheery wave. Harry’s good friend, Luna Lovegood, was engaged to be married to Rolf Scamander, grandson of the subject of the portrait, at the end of the summer. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon—or, it’s not July already, is it? No, it can’t be. Time means very little to us portraits, but Rolf and his young lady were by earlier and stopped to say hello. I’m sure they’d have mentioned if the wedding was that soon. Dear girl, Rolf’s Luna.” The last four words were said with the air of one thinking, but not saying, ‘Perhaps a bit odd, though.’ “And, my word, is this your young Mr. Lupin? Good heavens, quite all grown up! Seems just yesterday you were knee high to a kneazle! And who else do you have with you today?” he asked, answering his own question almost in the same breath. “Well, my word. Draco Malfoy.” 

Harry felt the silence that followed the announcement like a sudden thickening of the very air around them. The words had not been spoken loudly, but they might have been shouted under a _Sonorus_ charm, so complete was their effect on the surrounding portraits. The sudden quiet on the walls drew the attention of the witches and wizards in the area, and soon, as had happened in the Apparition centre, all eyes were on them. A quick glance at Draco showed him standing tall, but Harry was sure his face had paled, and his posture was unnaturally stiff. Both of his hands were on his son’s shoulders; his fingers were curled in a loose but protective grip.

“Professor Snape will be sorry to have missed you. He speaks very highly of you,” said Mr Scamander with real sincerity. “Not that he speaks often, mind you, but when he does . . . And this little one must be your son, and two of the Weasleys, of course. Recognise that Weasley hair anywhere,” he said with a wink. “Knew your great-grandfather, Septimus Weasley. Good man, good wizard. Hair like phoenix feathers.”

Draco did not speak. Harry counted to five before gesturing to each of the children in turn. “Newton Scamander, this is Scorpius Malfoy and Rose and Hugo Weasley.” To the kids he said, “This is Newton Scamander. He wrote _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ and _A Children's Anthology of Monsters_.”

The children beamed. _A Children's Anthology of Monsters_ was as beloved as _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

Scorpius said excitedly, “Daddy reads me that book!” 

“Well now, well now. My word, isn’t that lovely. And what story do you like best, dear boy?”

“ _Dionise the Disappearing Diricawl._ ” 

“I like _Aeneas the Aethonan Takes Flight,_ ” chimed in Rose happily. “I can read it all by myself.” 

“Well, now. Can you, my dear? I say, well done, indeed. I had an Aethonan once, you know. Flew him in races. Erasmus was his name. Good horse, he was.”

Harry looked around them. The other portraits had all gone back to their own conversations. Most of the on-lookers had moved on; only a few remained, and those who had scurried off quickly enough once they saw his eyes on them.

“I want to fly in horse races!” exclaimed Hugo. “I like to fly. I’ve a new racing broom.”

“I like to fly, too!” enthused Scorpius. “I’m going to be a Seeker like my daddy and Harry.”

“We’d best be off,” Harry said. “Nice to see you again, Mr Scamander.”

“Yes, yes. Do enjoy your visit. Oh, and do stop and see the new exhibit Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank has put together! ” The portrait continued in an excited whisper, “They’ve unicorns. Six of them. Created a special pen for them. Poor things. Dreadfully ill they were when they arrived. Rubeus Hagrid found them in the Forbidden Forest, not that Hagrid could get at all close, of course. Went and fetched the Headmistress and Mediwitch. That’s what brought Rolf and Luna in. They’ve top notch Magizoological Healers here to treat them, of course, but that Luna . . . she’s a remarkable affinity with unicorns. Respond to her wonderfully, they do.” Harry heard the pride in the old man’s voice as he spoke of this granddaughter-in-law-to-be. “There’s something special about that girl.”

“Yes, there certainly is,” Harry agreed.

As the children were excited to see the unicorns, the group proceeded to the Magical Creatures gallery first, where Harry saw the bright blonde hair of his friend almost immediately.

“Harry!” she called upon seeing him. Gone were the dirigible plum earrings and bottle cap necklace of her youth, but Luna was still unmistakably Luna. She still carried her wand tucked behind her left ear, and the cat eye glasses she now wore were vaguely reminiscent of the Spectrespecs she’d worn years ago. She came up to him, holding her hands out to him, the light catching the diamond in her engagement ring and making it sparkle. 

Behind the glasses, Luna’s pale eyes were as large and protuberant as ever, but rather than the perpetually surprised appearance they’d given her during their school years, in adulthood they gave the impression of being able to see inside a person, to see what one wanted to keep hidden—not a pleasant thought in one so prone to speaking with such embarrassing honesty as Luna. In her dream-like voice she greeted Draco as warmly as she had Harry, looking between the two with a serene smile on her face that made Harry squirm uncomfortably. 

Rose jumped up and down with excitement, saying they’d come to see the unicorns, and Harry felt relief flood him to have that penetrating gaze diverted. 

The smile lingered on Luna’s lips a moment longer before becoming something different, something maternal as she turned her attention the children. “They’re doing very well. The Magizoological Healers hope to be able to return them to the Forbidden Forest before too long, once they get a little stronger. We’re just preparing to feed them. Would you like to watch?”

“Can we?” the three pleaded in unison, Rose and Hugo directing the question to Harry and Scorpius to his father. Harry agreed readily, but Draco remained silent.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Luna assured him in her calm, soothing voice. 

“Please, Daddy?” Scorpius implored, tugging on his father’s hand. “Harry said Rose and Hugo could go.” After several seconds, Draco agreed as well, although with obvious reluctance. This would likely be the first time Scorpius was in a public place out of his father’s sight—never a comfortable moment for any parent, Harry understood.

The children were elated as Luna led them toward the unicorns’ enclosure just beyond a large placard reading NO MEN BEYOND THIS POINT, WOMEN AND CHILDREN ONLY with Rose, so like Hermione, peppering her with questions. 

As they watched the children go off with Luna, a pair of twin girls walked close by, saying, “Hi, Teddy,” in their lilting teenage girl sing-song voices. 

Beside him, Teddy blushed and smiled and stammered. “Chloe . . . Imogen . . . er . . . hi.”

The sisters exchanged a glance and a smile. One dropped her eyes to the ground and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Her twin’s eyes shifted from Teddy to first Harry, then Draco. Her eyebrow lifted as she gave Teddy a pointed look.

“Oh! Oh, er, sorry. Er, yeah, Harry, Draco this is Chloe and Imogen Elliott.” To the girls he said, “Harry you know, of course.” The girls’ faces were familiar to Harry, but only vaguely, and he’d been unable to recall their names before Teddy supplied them. If they were Teddy’s age, it would’ve been five years since he’d had them in one of his groups, and kids changed so much in five years. “And this is Draco Malfoy, my cousin,” Teddy said.

Harry waited, but there was no reaction from the girls to Draco’s name, and he released a tense breath. To teenagers—unless, like Teddy, they’d lost a parent—the war had already begun it’s inevitable fade into the monotone drawl of Professor Binns’ History of Magic classes.

Chloe—or possibly Imogen—said that they’d been volunteering with the magical creatures over the Easter hols. “We were just going on a break . . . would you like to get a cup of tea with us?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Rather than a cup of tea, Teddy looked as if he’d been offered the sun and stars, his gaze falling on Imogen—or possibly Chloe—looking up at him through her lashes. As an afterthought, he asked Harry, “You don’t mind, do you?” his eyes clearly begging him not to mind. 

“No, of course not. Go on—Catch up with us later,” Harry called out as Teddy and the girls headed off together. Teddy waved a hand over his head to show he’d heard.

Suddenly and unexpectedly alone with Draco, Harry wanted to seize his chance to apologise properly. Draco, he noticed, was fidgeting nervously, his hands twisting in front of him, his eyes never moving from the unicorn enclosure, where a large number of women, girls and pre-Hogwarts aged boys had followed Luna. 

“We might as well sit down. Who knows how long it takes to feed six unicorns? Shall we?” Harry asked, gesturing towards some free chairs along the wall. 

Getting no response, he called Draco’s name. There was no indication the other had heard, but two nearby wizards looked at them in marked disapproval. The men were about the age of Arthur Weasley, Harry guessed. The expressions on their faces were stern and unforgiving as they stared openly at Harry and Draco together. 

“May I help you with something?” Harry asked, his voice as cold and hard as ice. 

“I would expect you to take better care of with whom you associate, Mr Potter. Shocking you, of all people, should forget what his kind did, but we’ve not, nor will we ever,” one of the two responded self-righteously, holding his head high and looking down his nose at them. His friend nodded vigorously in agreement, making himself look like one of those bobblehead dolls Muggles were fond of. 

“What _his kind_ did . . .” Harry replied, letting his voice trail off. In his peripheral vision, he watched Draco for his reaction to the two men’s words. The only indication Harry could see that he had heard the two men was that his spine appeared a little straighter than it had moments ago—a common reaction of his, Harry observed.

The low buzz of voices around them had fallen silent, and Harry knew they had become the centre of attention. In a low, cold voice he knew all ears would be straining to hear, he said, “What _kind_ would that be, gentlemen? The kind who was willing to fight for what he believed in, as opposed to those who closed their eyes and hid inside their homes in fear while our world was nearly destroyed? Is that the _kind_ you’re referring to? Or the kind who would help another onto a broom to escape a room engulfed by Fiendfyre before mounting a broom himself? That _kind_? Or the kind who refused to identify me to those who would turn me over to Voldemort?” 

The two men gasped, and they were not the only ones. Even after fifteen years, there were still those who had lived through the war who quaked at the sound of Voldemort’s name. 

“What, may I ask, did either of you do during the war that you feel earned you the right to judge this man or dictate to me what is acceptable company?”

Indignant, the two men slinked off, muttering to each other and looking back over their shoulders at them. Harry let his eyes roam around the room; the rest of the crowd quickly strove to act as if they hadn’t noticed Harry’s speech at all.

“Shall we sit?” Harry asked, calmly and politely, as if the last two minutes had never happened and gesturing towards the same seats he had before they’d been interrupted. 

Draco glared at him but followed, never averting his watchful eyes from the unicorn’s enclosure for more than a second or two. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Potter.”

“Don’t flatter yourself so much,” Harry said, the gleam in his eyes and the smile tugging at the corner of his lips taking the insult out of his words. “That had nothing to do with you. Do you think I appreciate strangers thinking they’ve some right to tell me who I may or may not spend the day with? Believe me, that wasn’t the first time I’ve had to disabuse someone of notions like that.” Harry laughed but there was no humour in it. “You should’ve seen some of the howlers I got after Rita Skeeter broke the news I was gay. Merlin, you’d have thought I’d been seen in Diagon Alley knocking over prams and kicking crups.” 

Rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously, he said in a more serious tone, “Speaking of—I really do want to apologise for what Jonathan said earlier. He was way out of line, but that’s Jonathan all over. I swear, I had no idea he’d be in the area. Museums are not his favourite places to spend the day. He’s much more the Savile Row and Jermyn Street type.”

“I don’t care what your fuck toy thinks, Potter,” Draco whispered harshly, his eyes remaining fixed on the unicorn’s enclosure.

Harry was taken aback by the vehemence in Draco’s words. His hackles rose, but out of nowhere, an old Shakespearean quote floated through his mind. _Methinks thou doth protest too much._ He forced the thought from his mind, angry with himself for ever thinking it in the first place. Draco was straight, he reminded himself once again. But scold himself as he might, the memory of Draco’s reaction to what Jonathan had said—the way he’d looked at Harry, the sound of his voice—wouldn’t leave Harry alone.

_Stop it!_ Harry ordered himself. _He was married, in case you’ve forgotten._

_“And what of it? You dated women before accepting you were gay.”_ a little voice in the back of his head pointed out.

_Dated. Not married and had a child with._

_“Good point, because no gay man has ever married a woman for whatever reason before—a reason like wanting a child, perhaps? And you don’t even know for sure that he was married to Scorpius’ mother.”_

Harry licked his lips. Merlin, he could go for a drink. His mouth had gone quite dry. Why _had_ Draco acted as he had with Jonathan only to be so angry afterwards?

The silence between them weighed on Harry much heavier than it had at the Quidditch match, and he felt the need to break it. Letting his mind stay on the track it had taken would be dangerous. It was too easy to convince oneself of what one wanted to be true regardless of evidence to the opposite.

Rubbing a hand over his lips, he glanced at Draco out of the corner of his eyes, the movement feeling conspicuous after the thoughts that had run through his head. Draco no longer looked merely nervous or uneasy; he looked utterly terrified as he sat motionless and unblinking, watching the unicorn enclosure. 

“Scorpius is fine. There’s nothing to worry about. Luna will take good care of him,” Harry assured him.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Potter, you’re talking about someone who was held prisoner in my family’s dungeons.”

Harry bristled. His first instinct was to defend Luna against the idea that she would ever, under any circumstances, allow a child to be harmed, but he bit the words back. After the dreadful things Scorpius’ last tutor had said to him and with Draco not knowing Luna as well as he did, from Draco’s perspective, Harry had to admit his fear was not unreasonable. Thinking about it in that light, Harry recognised what a leap of faith Draco had taken in allowing Scorpius to go with Luna, and he inhaled deeply, taking a moment to choose his words carefully. Mere assurances of Luna’s absolute trustworthiness would be meaningless. He couldn’t help but sense this would be a pivotal moment, and he didn’t want to fuck it up. 

“Do you know why Luna was taken?” Harry asked quietly, keeping his eyes averted. He did not want Draco to feel as if he was being questioned.

A moment later, he answered his own question, just as quietly, his eyes lowered and fixed on the scars on the back of his right hand— _I must not tell lies_ , they read. “It was because of her father, because he stood up to them, using _The Quibbler_ to tell people to fight against Voldemort.”

Unlike the two men who had criticised them a short while ago, Draco did not flinch at the name. That was one thing that almost unerringly separated those who fought from those who had not.

“They took her to control her father. If threatening someone who opposed them didn’t stop the person, they threatened someone that person loved—a much more effective strategy. Her father gave in. Started printing _The Quibbler_ with my face on the cover and a headline reading UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE.”

“You have some point for telling me all this, I presume?”

“My point is that Luna, better than almost anyone, understands what a person will do when the life of someone they love is threatened. She doesn’t hold being held prisoner at the manor against you. She never did.”

“They didn’t have to threaten me, you bloody idiot,” Draco hissed, keeping his voice low and looking around them to see who might be close enough to hear. “You heard us on the train at the beginning of sixth year. You heard me—proud as a fucking peacock I was, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Before you knew better—yeah, you were. I remember the girls’ toilets with Myrtle, too. Once you’d got a good strong taste of what being branded a Death Eater really meant, you were terrified and desperate to keep yourself and your parents alive. I also remember the Astronomy Tower. You lowered your wand. Not many people would have.”

Harry had barely finished speaking before Draco was on his feet and rushing towards the unicorn’s enclosure, his arms outstretched, reaching for his son as the children ran towards them, Luna following behind, grinning serenely.

Excitedly, Scorpius held his hand out, eager to show his father the small square card he held. “I got to pet the unicorns, Daddy! We all did! Look! They took our photograph!” 

The children all had magical instamatic photographs of the three of them petting the unicorns with Luna standing by and keeping a careful watch. Other children had photographs in their hands as well.

“Look, Daddy, see the littler little one?” Scorpius gushed. “Miss Luna said she’s only one year old. She said you can tell about how old she is because her hair is still so gold and not at all white yet. And the bigger little one is almost four. Look, Daddy, see his horn is just starting to grow? And there were all grown up ones that were all bright white and this big!” He held his arms open as wide as he could to show just how big the adult unicorns were.

“I’ve to go, Harry. Rolf is waiting for me,” Luna said, touching his arm, her voice as dream-like and ethereal as ever. The innocent smile on her face was a contradiction to the knowing sparkle in her eyes. Turning back to Harry as she drifted away, she said, “We’re addressing wedding invitations. I’ll put you down as plus one, but remember children are welcome as well, of course. Having children at a wedding brings luck to the couple for children of their own, you know. It was nice to see you again, Draco. You’ve a lovely little boy.” 

Harry cringed. He wanted to dig himself a nice deep hole, jump in it and bury himself. He opened his mouth but closed it again. Arguing with Luna was an exercise in utter futility once she got an idea in her head. Besides, she was already gone, and a quick glance at Draco showed that he was so fully absorbed in touching his son’s face as if he’d truly feared he’d never see the child again that it was unlikely he’d heard a word Luna had said.

“Can we go see the dragons now, Harry?” Rose asked. The Magical Creatures gallery had largely emptied. Unicorns were too big an act for jobberknolls and mackled malaclaws to follow.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry responded.

“It’s this way. Mummy and Daddy have taken us there before. Come on!” Rose hollered. Best friends after only one day together, Scorpius ran off with Rose and Hugo, leaving the adults to trail behind them. Teddy would find them, Harry knew, but likely not for some time.

To Harry’s surprise Draco turned his head fractionally in his direction. He didn’t go so far as to actually look at Harry, but that slight turning of the head was more voluntary acknowledgment than Draco had shown him in hours. “Floo to the Manor at eight tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss scheduling Scorpius’ lessons around your work hours and other details then.” 

The simple instructions had not been said with any semblance of warmth or friendship, but neither had they been said with icy indifference. That had to be a step, if just a baby step, in the right direction, Harry felt, and that minor progress left part of him feeling like he’d won a major victory.

It left the rest of him feeling as if he’d just stepped of a great cliff and could not see what he was falling into.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“And his name was ‘Dippy’! Almost just like yours, Ippy!” Scorpius said gleefully to the little elf as he pulled his pyjama top over his head later that night. He had talked to his grandparents’ portraits endlessly of their day out and his friends since the moment they’d returned to the manor and was now repeating everything to a new audience. “Except, Harry said he wasn’t really real. But they did have loads of real ones, and they were great big! As big as dragons! Their teeth were this big!” He showed the elf with his hands how big a _Tyrannosaurus_ ’s teeth were, overestimating somewhat. “And we went to the Magical wing, and I got to pet unicorns!” He showed the elf the photograph he had of himself and his new friends in the unicorns’ enclosure. To his grandparents’ portraits, he said, “And we talked to the portrait of the man who wrote my monster book! And he knew Daddy!”

“Did he, indeed?” Lucius Malfoy asked.

“And we got to make potions, just like real potioneers! I made Berryserum. It was red, and it tasted like strawberries, and it had bubbles, and it sparkled!”

“How lovely, darling,” Narcissa Malfoy cooed for at least the tenth time that night. 

“It was the best adventure ever!”

Draco had busied himself with his son’s bedclothes, readying them for Scorpius to climb in, but faltered when the child’s words reminded him that he’d promised him an adventure after the Miss Westbourne disaster. His son considered a day at the museum with friends to be an adventure. “Hop in, monkey,” he said, keeping his voice calmer than he felt.

“I’m not tired, Daddy. Can’t I go back downstairs?”

“No, you cannot go back downstairs, and yes, you are tired.”

“No, I’m not,” the child insisted.

Squatting down in front of his son and balancing on the balls of his feet with his elbows on his knees, Draco looked at his son closely, as if he was a Healer examining a patient. “Not tired, you say. I think you are. In fact, I see a yawn growing inside you right now.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Oh, yes, I do. You’re so tired, I think you’re going to yawn any second. The yawn is getting bigger. It’s right about,” Draco twirled his finger around in the air before pointing to the base of his son’s throat, “there.” He kept his smile to himself. This was an old trick his mother had used on him as a child. Say the word ‘yawn’ in front of someone often enough, and it was inevitable that they would yawn before long. He could see Scorpius stubbornly clenching his jaw in effort to keep his mouth firmly shut.

Draco yawned himself. “I’m tired, too,” he said.

Unable to hold it back, Scorpius yawned.

“See? I knew you were tired. Now, up into bed.”

Defeated, Scorpius climbed up into his bed.

“What story would you like?” Draco said, going to his son’s bookshelf. “Dionise?” he asked, already flipping to the page of his son’s favourite story.

“No, I want _Aeneas the Aethonan Takes Flight._ Hugo and I are going to fly horses in races when we get big.” 

“Is that so?” Draco asked, amused.

Scorpius was sitting upright in his bed with his pillows piled behind him, his covers pulled up to his chest. The little stuffed Snitch snuggle ball with the green plush blanket he’d had all his life was tucked under his arm, and Draco could see his feet rocking from side to side under the covers. Sitting down beside him in the bed, Draco pulled his son against him. He kissed the top of his little boy’s head and thought of the role Potter and Rita Skeeter had unknowingly played in Scorpius’ having been born and how dismal his life would be without him. Perhaps he should send Skeeter a thank you card.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In his study after Scorpius had fallen asleep, Draco poured himself a generous three fingers of scotch and drank it straight down like a shot. He knew his parents were watching like the proverbial flies on the wall, and he knew they disapproved. It didn’t stop him from pouring himself a second glass and downing it just as quickly as the first.

“Scorpius certainly seems to have had a wonderful day. Potter is an adequate instructor, then?” his mother asked with some hesitation.

Swirling the last dregs of scotch in the bottom of his glass, Draco responded acerbically, “Oh, yes. He was instructive and engaging. Scorpius hung on his every word.” As priceless as having his parents’ portraits for advice and company was, it could be rather like living in a fishbowl at times. This was one of those times. 

“Instructive and engaging. How dreadful. I can see why you are so upset. ” 

Draco set his glass down on an ornate Elizabethan sideboard. He felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading through him, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. A few more, and he would no longer care who Potter chose to share his bed—but he wasn’t quite there yet. “Scorpius thinks he’s the greatest thing since pumpkin juice.”

“Terrible thing, that. A pupil’s liking his tutor can lead nowhere productive.”

“He is coming to the manor tomorrow morning before breakfast to discuss Scorpius’ lessons.” 

“I see. And you feel hung-over will be the best way to make arrangements for your son’s education?”

Belatedly, Draco realised whatever hangover potion he had in the manor, if he had any, had likely expired ages ago, if not dried up. It was unusual for him to drink more than a glass or two of wine with dinner or two fingers of scotch in front of the fire with a book after Scorpius was tucked into bed. He would face one bugger of a headache in the morning if he drank much more. A headache tomorrow versus forgetting ever laying eyes on Johnathan Wrayburn tonight—it was a tough call.

“Ran into his ex in Muggle London.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before his mother began regretfully, “Oh, Draco—”

“Bloke named Jonathan,” he said abruptly, in no mood for maternal platitudes. He was seriously considering a third stiff drink in less than ten minutes, hangover be damned. He was also considering forgoing the glass and just taking the decanter to bed with him. He could always send Ippy to Diagon Alley for a potion first thing in the morning.

If the silence that fell after his previous comment had been thick enough to cut with a knife, the one that followed his latest statement would require something more along the lines of a sword.

After what felt like hours, his father cleared his throat. “Are you quite sure? Did Potter confirm the relationship?”

Draco laughed scathingly. “Not in so many words. But, oh yes, I’m quite sure.” Merlin knew, Potter’s verbal confirmation hadn’t been necessary. Neither man had let there be any question in the matter. 

_Pompous fool of a man—actually referred to me as his replacement!_

Draco picked up his glass and hurled it across the room. He felt a brief moment of satisfaction as the hundreds-of-years-old crystal shattered against the wall. 

“Apparently, I’m the only wizard alive who did not know which team Potter plays for. Rita Skeeter ran an exposé on the subject, as if it was any of anybody’s concern. I’m sure it was all over the front page of the _Prophet_.” 

“I see,” his father responded. “That certainly shines a new light on—” 

“Yes it does rather, doesn’t it?” Draco responded, but at that moment his thoughts were much more on Potter’s ex than on the reason behind an erroneous assumption made by Heathcliff and Ariadne Greengrass years ago. The man had infuriated him beyond reason. Even now, Draco had trouble letting go of his resentment. 

_Jonathan Phillip Wrayburn, of the Wrayburns of Cliffemount Hall, seat of the Viscount Brexstone—thank you very much. Who fucking introduces themselves like that? Fucking pretentious tit. If Potter’s taste runs towards vapid, conceited, insipid little upstarts, he’s welcome to them._

_“Except, it didn’t seem at all like that_ is _the direction his taste runs, did it? He could hardly have seemed less pleased to see the man,”_ a little voice in the back of his mind pointed out to him.

Draco ran his hands through his hair and sat down heavily on an overstuffed armchair facing the fire. He stared into flames, watching the embers glow red and yellow—colours he would always associate with Potter, even so long after Hogwarts. He had been horribly rude towards Potter, and he knew it. Hell, even at the time he’d known his behaviour was inexcusable, but he’d been unable to stop. What must Potter have thought? Fuck, he’d reacted just like a jealous lover, irate at having a date interrupted by the one who had come before him. Draco had no idea what had possessed him to behave in such a manner. 

_“Do you not?”_ asked the little voice in the back of his head. 

Draco rubbed his eyes, ignoring the question. In the future, he must work to keep himself in check. The fact that Potter was gay changed nothing. He was certainly never going to develop feelings for Draco. 

He might, however, be wishing to be rid of him and regretting his offer to tutor Scorpius. 

Draco covered his face with his hands. No matter how rudely he had behaved, Potter had not lost his patience and responded in kind—not even after that wretched scene in the Magical Creatures gallery whilst the children had been in with the unicorns. However, through his affability and pleasant manner, his growing irritation had been apparent in his sighs of annoyance and loudly exhaled breaths. 

The frame Draco’s parents favoured in the room hung on the wall to his right. They preferred that particular frame because it put them in the most natural position for conversation when he was seated in front of the fire. It was almost as if they were in the room, sitting beside him. 

Or it was as least as close to it as was possible.

He could see them out of the corner of his eye, still there but silent as they allowed him his moment of introspection. He turned his head fractionally in their direction but quickly looked away.

“I’m afraid I treated Potter rather abysmally. I shall have to apologise and hope he will forgive my behaviour. But what explanation can I possibly offer?”

“Offer no explanation,” his father said stiffly. It was not in the nature of a Malfoy to apologise. “On such occasions as this when one is forced to offer an apology, it should be done with a minimum of fuss, like having to take a particularly vile potion. Do it and be done with it.”

Draco nodded his head and stared into the flames once more.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Right, then. Like Father said, do it and be done with it,_ Draco told himself the next morning. _Just say, “I behaved very poorly, and I apologise.”_

He’d tossed and turned half the night, and what little sleep he’d got had been plagued with dreams of Potter learning of Draco’s feelings towards him and mocking him—or worse, pitying him. Standing at the sink after his daily ablutions and staring at his reflection in the mirror, Draco couldn’t help but compare himself to Jonathan Wrayburn and feel he came up short. Jonathan had thick, wavy, golden-blond hair. Draco’s own pale white-blond hair had begun to thin. Before long, it would likely start receding. Jonathan’s face could have been sculpted by a master artisan. His eyes were a deep shade of blue. Draco had always known his own countenance was far too angular to ever be considered handsome, and his eyes were a dull grey.

The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour. In fifteen minutes it would be eight o’clock. Draco splashed cold water on his face and dried it roughly with towel. What did it matter what he looked like? Potter would never spare him a second glance. He squared his shoulders and re-entered his bedroom to finish dressing. Potter would be arriving soon, and Draco had an apology to offer. 

Ten minutes later Draco waited in front of the Floo in the small library, rehearsing his very short and to-the-point apology. “ I behaved very poorly, and I apologise . . . My behaviour was uncalled for, and I apologise . . . I regret my behaviour, and I do apologise.” He dropped down onto a leather sofa and rubbed his forehead. Malfoys were not cut out for apologising. It was not their metier.

The flames in the hearth turned green, and a sound like bell peals filled the room. Draco looked at the mantle clock. It was three minutes to eight. 

“You know what to do, darling,” his mother said. His father tipped his head to him, and the pair slid from the frame as Potter’s agitated face appeared in the fire.

“Draco? Are you there?” 

Potter’s voice was as tense as his face, and Draco feared the worst—that he was going to say he’d changed his mind. He rose and smoothed his robes. His stomach was tied in knots, and his chest felt tight. He adjusted his collar and fidgeted with his cuffs. He knew he was stalling, and he scolded himself. _Right, then. Like taking a potion, take a deep breath and just do it._ “You may come through.”

The green flames roared, expanding in the blink of an eye to triple their original size, and Potter stepped into the library, wringing his hands in front of himself.

Unwilling to give him the opportunity to withdraw his offer to tutor Scorpius, Draco steeled his nerve and spoke before the other man had the chance to utter a sound. “Potter, there is something I feel I must say—”

Before he could continue, Potter held up his hands in the universal signal to stop. “I know what you’re going to say,” he said regretfully. “Look, I’m really sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, but I am.”

Draco’s own apology forgotten, the knots in his stomach vanished, and the tightness in his chest changed from one of nerves to one of paternal anger. He had expected better from Potter, but he was no better than all the Miss Westbournes Draco had encountered since the war. He was worse—demonstrating such outrage at the treatment Scorpius had suffered, only to repeat it himself. 

“So, that’s it? You’re angry with me, so you’re just going to forget about your offer to tutor Scorpius?” 

Potter had been poised to speak again, but instead he fell silent, and his eyebrows drew together. His reaction to the accusation surprised Draco. That he had expected something else was so obvious, Draco felt his anger deflate and something akin to panic build up in his place. Had he jumped to the wrong conclusion?

“What?” Potter asked. “Of course not.”

Draco mentally swore. He had been wrong, and his hot-headedness had no doubt sunk him further in Potter’s eyes. “I know I was an absolute arse to you yesterday, and I apologize.” He winced at the pleading tone of his voice. He’d intended to apologize in a far more business-like manner, but his words were fuelled by more than just his need to make Potter keep to their agreement. Draco had already given him enough reasons to dislike him when they were younger. Even if Potter would never return his feelings, Draco didn’t want his rudeness to add one more reason to that list. “My behaviour was unjustifiable, and I am truly sorry.”

A hint of a smile played at Potter’s lips, and Draco’s eyes were helplessly drawn to the other man’s mouth before he forced himself to look elsewhere.

“Yeah, you were kind of a git,” Potter agreed.

“I hope you won’t let my conduct influence you against Scorpius.”

Harry swallowed. He looked around the room, fidgeting and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, never letting his eyes land on any one object for more than a moment. “Your conduct . . . your conduct in other regards more than made up for your brusqueness towards me,” he said in a whispered voice. A humourless laugh escaped his lips. “I rather thought you’d tell me to bugger off the moment I stepped out of the Floo. Still waiting for it, actually.”

It was Draco’s turn to be surprised. He blinked twice. What did Potter think he had to apologise for? Was he still thinking about Draco’s reaction to Wrayburn’s words? He opened his mouth but hesitated before asking, “Why would I do that? It’s to Scorpius’ benefit—” 

“I take it you’ve not yet seen the _Prophet_ , then?” Potter asked, his words spoken in a nervous rush.

Draco shook his head, comprehension dawning on him. It could hardly be surprising that their appearance together in public yesterday would be remarked upon, but why Potter would think Draco would be angry over it made no sense. Surely, he had to see the advantage of having their names mentioned in the same breath was all Draco’s. “I’ve not seen the _Prophet_ in several years.” Draco’s hand went to his left forearm. “The opinions expressed regarding my family were . . . unpleasant to read. I read the financial papers, and aside from that, my solicitor keeps me abreast of any relevant goings-on.”

Potters eyes widened before he looked away. “Then . . . then you didn’t know . . . ?” He worried his bottom lip between his teeth before pulling a copy of the _Prophet_ from the pocket of his robes. “Front page of the society pages. You’re not going to like it.” His tone managed to be both apologetic and straight forward at the same time.

As Draco reached for the newspaper, their fingertips brushed. Potter took two steps towards the windows overlooking the informal gardens. 

Rather than examine the paper for whatever had disturbed Potter so badly, Draco watched him as his eyes roamed around the library. What must he be feeling at being in the manor again, Draco wondered? Should he propose Scorpius’ lessons be held at Potter’s home instead?

The walls were lined with five-foot-long floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Between the bookshelves on the exterior wall were the same French doors found throughout the manor. On the interior walls hung large, gilded frames, all of which were empty. 

“I can certainly clear a room, can’t I?” Potter asked.

“Don’t flatter yourself so much. That’s nothing to do with you,” Draco said, repeating Potter’s words from yesterday back to him. “Those frames have been empty for years. The exodus of ancient Malfoys happened long ago.”

“Why do you keep them up then?”

“I’ve been meaning to purchase Muggle paintings to replace the original portraits with.” 

Potter laughed. 

Draco couldn’t remember ever saying anything that made Potter laugh. The sound unravelled a knot that had formed in his stomach. “They give my parents’ portraits more mobility around the manor,” he said truthfully in a low voice.

Potter nodded in understanding. “I’ve photographs of my parents, but no portraits.” He indicated the newspaper Draco still held. Draco had quite forgotten the article featured in the society pages that had so upset the other man. “Open it,” he instructed. 

The headline was splashed across the top of the page in large print.

HARRY POTTER’S NEW LOVE INTEREST—A MARKED MAN!

Draco felt his legs weaken beneath him. That was not what he had expected. Allegations that he’d Confunded or even Imperiused Potter would not have surprised him—but this? He reached behind himself for the arm of the sofa and guided himself onto it not a second too soon. He did not think he could have stayed on his feet a moment longer. It was like a slap in the face. What he wanted but knew he could never have stared up at him in cruel, taunting black and white.

He scanned through the article. It was written by Rita Skeeter, of course. Who else would write such tripe? It was full of suppositions and deliberately misleading inferences and reminded Draco immediately of the one she had written about Potter during the Triwizard Tournament in their fourth year, when he had been the one feeding her exaggerations and outright lies. Who were the culprits this time, Draco wondered. Those two men Potter had put in their place, or someone else? 

Draco carefully folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Someone should step on that loathsome little insect.”

“I am so sorry,” Potter said. “She’s done this before when I was seen out in public with a man. With our history, I should’ve realised she’d jump at the chance for a headline.”

“It’s hardly the first untrue thing they’ve printed about me.” Draco didn’t dare look at Potter. A firestorm of emotion was gathering force inside him, and he was sure everything he was feeling would be visible in his face. 

“I was afraid you’d be livid.” The relief in Potter’s voice was unmistakable. “Especially after Jonathan running his mouth off like that.”

The last thing Draco wanted at that moment was to think about Jonathan Wrayburn. “It’s not that bad. I was expecting something much worse, that I’d used dark magic on you or something of that sort.”

“Most straight men would have had a fit at the implication they were romantically involved with another man.”

“No one who reads that rubbish will think for one second there was the slightest bit of truth to it. No one would believe you would ever develop feelings like that for me. The very idea is ridiculous.” 

Potter mumbled something under his breath which Draco did not quite catch, but sounded remarkably like, “Don’t be so sure about that.”

“What did you say?” he asked, his ears perked up and his back a little straighter. His heart jumped in his chest, and he felt a tremor run up his spine.

“Nothing.”

Draco dared to turn his head enough to see Potter from the corner of his eye. “It sounded like you said ‘Don’t be so sure about that’.” The other man fidgeted uncomfortably, as if he’d not realised the words had been spoken out loud. It _couldn’t_ be. . . .

Could it?

Potter ran his hand over his face and through his hair. He didn’t look at Draco; rather, he appeared to be entranced by the pattern on the carpet. He drew a deep, shaky breath.

“Look, if I’m being honest, I have to admit I do find you quite attractive, and if I didn’t know very well you were straight, which I do, I’d definitely be interested in seeing you—”

In the blink of an eye, Draco was on his feet, facing Potter. He was breathing as if he’d just run a mile up hill.

“—but I do know you’re straight, I mean, you’ve got a son, so obviously . . . er . . . yeah . . . I mean, it’s not like I’d—”

Potter never got to finish what he’d been about to say. Draco’s vision, his thought process, everything had narrowed to one single aim. Between the two men stood a small decorative table covered by a collection of ornaments as fragile as they were valuable. It was nothing but an obstacle separating Draco from what he wanted and, unable to think of anything other than the fact the Potter had just said he found him attractive, Draco flung it to the side. Covering the remaining few yards between them in long strides, he grabbed Potter by the collar of his robes. The two collided against the edge of the bookshelf, and Draco crashed his lips down on the other wizard’s. Their noses bumped, and their foreheads banged together. Potter gasped in surprise, and Draco, not thinking but rather acting purely by instinct, slid his tongue into the other man’s mouth. He clung to Potter, feeling his body pressed against his own, tasting him.

But Potter did not respond. He stood as motionless as a statue.

Draco felt his blood run cold. Had Potter been taking the Mickey? Mortified, he released the other man and stepped away. He had no idea what to say or do. He was living the dreams that had plagued him last night.

Though intense, his agony was short-lived. One step away from Potter was all he had taken before the other man groaned and reached out for him. Before Draco could speak, before he could even think, they were kissing again. This time was so different. Potter had been frozen a moment ago, but now he had come alive and taken control. Potter kissed the way he did everything, with complete abandon. He didn’t just kiss—he devoured. His hands were everywhere all at once. He pushed Draco towards the leather sofa, and together they fell onto it. Part of Draco’s mind feared that any second he would be awoken and find himself alone in his bed, but Potter’s—no, not Potter’s, _Harry’s_ —weight on top of him was so solid this could be no dream. This was real. This was really happening. Harry was really lying on top of him, snogging him as if nothing else mattered, nothing else existed.

They broke apart only when forced to by the need for air. Even then, breathing heavily, Harry allowed no more than an inch to separate them. Draco licked his lips, still able to feel Harry’s against them. 

“Didn’t dare hope,” Harry breathed as he cradled Draco’s neck and jaw in his hand. “Do you have any idea how fucking good you look in Muggle clothes? Been half mad thinking about you.” He gently traced the tip of his tongue along Draco’s lips, mimicking Draco’s own action a moment previously. He exhaled against Draco’s skin, covering his lips with closed mouth kisses. Draco didn’t know which excited him more—Harry forceful or Harry gentle. 

Harry’s hand slid from Draco’s neck down his chest to settle at his waist. Harry kissed him again, a slow, burning kiss that left Draco realising he’d never really been kissed before that morning. Nothing he’d ever known compared to kissing Harry.

Draco touched Harry’s face, tracing his fingers along the other man’s forehead, down his temple and across his cheek to his lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Dreamed about it . . . never thought. . . .” He brought Harry’s mouth back to his own. Harry’s mouth tasted like the coffee he must’ve drunk that morning. He smelled of soap, simple and clean, masculine. 

“I’ve lost time to make up for, then,” Harry said between kisses, pushing himself against Draco, letting him feel exactly how badly he wanted this. “I want you to tell me every one of your dreams, and then I want to make them real.” 

Draco moaned as Harry gently grazed his bottom lip with his teeth. “Could take some time.” He ran his fingers through the thick mop of Harry’s coal black hair. “I’ve an active imagination.”

“Good.”

There was no more talking for several minutes, but far too soon, Draco had to force himself to slow things down. With one hand on Harry’s chest and the other still buried in that uncontrollable hair, he said, “Scorpius will be down for breakfast before long.”

Harry nodded his head. He stole one last, lingering kiss and breathed deeply, exhaling a long breath. “I assumed you were straight.” With a note of reluctance in his voice, as if he were afraid of the answer, he asked, “Scorpius’ mother?” 

Draco closed his eyes. The story of his marriage was not a pleasant one, but he knew if he wanted any chance of a real relationship with Harry—and he did—it was one he would need to fully disclose. He started at the very beginning. “My marriage to Scorpius’ mother was arranged.”

Harry stood and moved away from him. “You’re married.” His words were heavy with disappointment. 

Harry was not the sort to involve himself with a married man, regardless of the circumstances of the marriage, Draco was sure, and he hastened to clarify. “I _was_ married.” He rose and moved towards the fireplace. “Astoria died four months ago.” On the mantle stood several photographs in silver frames. He picked one up and held it, looking at the person in the photograph. “She had been . . . unwell for a long time.” _Unwell_ . . . Even after all this time, the word left a bitter taste in Draco’s mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Harry offered awkwardly. 

Immediately after learning of the deception behind his marriage, Draco had been able to feel nothing but resentment and open hostility; however, as the years passed, compassion and pity had driven the bitterness away. Now he felt genuine sympathy for all involved. 

“She is at peace now.” Turning to Harry, he said, “Our marriage was arranged, as I said. I’ve you to thank for it, actually. And by extension for Scorpius.”

“I don’t—”

“Understand? No, I wouldn’t expect you to. But you see, you came to my mother’s funeral.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Harry asked, clearly confused.

“I’d no idea myself until just yesterday.” Draco said. He handed the photograph to Harry, saying, “My late wife. The former Astoria Greengrass.”

Harry looked at the photograph and then at Draco. The photograph showed a beautiful little girl with dark hair and eyes sitting in the grass, smiling and waving. Sunlight streamed down on the child, who laughed as she rocked her bare feet from side to side, flowers between each of her toes. 

“I remember Daphne Greengrass, but I don’t remember—”

“Astoria? No, you wouldn’t. She was home-schooled. Her health was not good, or so her family claimed. Daphne was her older sister. 

“Very shortly after my mother’s funeral, I received a communication from Heathcliff Greengrass, Astoria’s father, expressing his desire to arrange a marriage between his younger daughter and myself. The letter touted the advantages of marriage to a man in my particular circumstances, specifically mentioning that he was ‘sure Mr. Potter would agree’,” Draco quoted the letter from memory. “As to my particular circumstances, I assumed he was referring to my being the last of my line and having just lost my mother. I’d no idea until much later that at the beginning of sixth year Daphne had happened upon me and another student—male, of course—at a very compromising moment. Being the Slytherin she is, she kept what she’d seen to herself until it was beneficial to her to use it. As to why he suspected you would agree, or even mentioned you, I’d no idea until yesterday. Those articles you said Skeeter printed about you. That would have been before my mother died, I suppose?” Draco asked.

When Harry nodded, Draco continued. “You surprised the entire Wizarding world by attending my mother’s funeral. I can only presume that when the _Prophet_ reported on it, Daphne informed her parents what she’d seen in our sixth year, and that they read into your attendance something that was not there.”

“They believed a marriage to my secret lover would benefit their family,” Harry said coldly, his feelings regarding such a motive plainly obvious. 

“And that I would be willing to do anything to keep our illicit affair out of the _Prophet_ , no doubt.” Draco replaced the photograph on the mantle. “Within days of our marriage, I learned the real reason Astoria’s parents were desirous of my marrying their daughter. I learned the terrible truth behind the reported poor health which had kept my wife from attending Hogwarts. Astoria was the victim of a dark curse cast as an act of revenge by a wizard her father had angered not long after that photograph was taken. She was seven years old. One year older than Scorpius is now. Her mind . . . was never sound again. She vacillated from being perfectly charming one day to violently savage the next or from . . . a nearly completely unresponsive stupor to wild delusions and hallucinations. The curse was degenerative and unstoppable.”

Harry gaped at him, clearly appalled.

“Her family used a very potent—and very illegal—variant of the common Calming Draught to control her during the negotiations for the marriage. The potion in question is practically the Imperious Curse in liquid form. As a result, she was as quiet as a mouse every time we met, not that we met very often. Her father was eager for the marriage to take place—citing both his and his wife’s failing health, which was true—and I, unsuspecting of anything’s being wrong, agreed there was no reason to delay. I thought she was merely shy, which was hardly surprising, and I believed the sooner things could be settled and we could begin our new lives, the better for the both of us.” Draco paused. “I could have had the marriage annulled, of course.”

“Why in Merlin’s name didn’t you?” 

“I would have lost my son. I wanted to marry because I wanted a family, a child. The curse destroyed her mind, but physically, Astoria was perfectly healthy and able to carry a child. Her parents must have feared the power they believed they held over me with the threat of exposing our non-existent relationship to the world would not be enough to prevent me from seeking an annulment once I’d learnt the truth, because they took the added precaution of giving her a strong fertility potion starting immediately after we entered into talks as an additional deterrent. Not relishing the thought of that particular aspect of married life, I began taking a similar potion myself. The result was that conceiving a child on our wedding night was virtually guaranteed and did, in fact, happen. Had I had the marriage annulled, her family would have been perfectly within their rights to have the pregnancy terminated.”

“That’s despicable.”

“At the time I agreed, I assure you. I could have wrung her father’s neck. But having Scorpius, I’ve come to understand their actions.”

“You’ve forgiven them?” Harry asked, astonished.

Draco rubbed his forehead. “You must understand. They were parents desperate to see their daughter provided for after they were gone. They were not young and neither were in good health. They did not possess resources equal to providing for Astoria after their deaths—she required around the clock supervision and care and would for the remainder of her life, which would not come cheaply and the responsibility for which would fall to Daphne before long. They either had to allow that to happen, or—”

“Pass it off to someone else.”

“Essentially, yes. Daphne had by then married a Spanish wizard and left England. She has limited means and a family of her own to care for.”

“So they chose the second option.”

“They got a wealthy guardian for their daughter who, while a social pariah himself, had a very powerful lover, or so they must have believed. What my money could not provide for her care, they had to have hoped your influence could.”

“My God. I don’t know that I would be so forgiving in your place.” Harry ran his hands over his face. 

“Astoria got the caretaker she needed, and I got the child I wanted. If I had to do it over, I’d agree to the marriage again to have Scorpius, even knowing the truth.”

“You said her parents were in poor health. Are they still alive?”

Draco shook his head. “No. Her mother died within two years of the marriage and her father a year after his wife.”

“What happened to the wizard who cursed her?”

“Caught and sent to Azkaban for an unrelated crime. At least the Greengrasses were spared a trial. But there was nothing that could be done to stop the curse. Once cast, its progress was unstoppable.

“I wanted to take Scorpius and leave England shortly after his birth, but Astoria had needed to be admitted to St. Mungo’s during her pregnancy. She remained in the Janus Thickey Ward until her death. They were able to provide better care for her there than I could give her here, and most days her delusions were so bad she’d no idea who I even was. The staff was kind and considerate, unlike others I’ve encountered, but I couldn’t leave her there alone. She was my wife and my son’s mother.”

Arms wrapped around Draco from behind, and he felt the warm pressure of Harry’s forehead against the back of his neck. It had been so long since he had enjoyed any physical contact with another adult, and the simple gesture felt so good, Draco felt his eyes burn with tears of gratitude. 

“How did she die?” Harry asked, his arms tightening around Draco’s waist.

“When in the grip of the worst of the madness the curse caused, she had no ability control her magic and suffered terrible outbursts.” Draco breathed deeply. “A variety of safety spells and enchantments were employed to protect her and others, but four months ago, she had a particularly bad episode, and her magic overpowered the protections. The destruction was extreme. Windows exploded. She sparked fires. Doors were blasted off their hinges. Staff tried to get to her through the chaos, but she flung herself from a blown out window before they could stop her. She fell six storeys.”

“My God.”

Draco placed his hands over Harry’s where they rested on his stomach. “She’s at peace now for the first time since she was seven years old.”

“How much does Scorpius know?”

“Very little. Just that his mummy was very sick. He never knew her, of course. The truth of what was done to her is just one of the things I’ll have to explain to him one day. Daphne sent me photographs of her from before she was cursed so that Scorpius would know his mother’s smile. It’s the one thing he inherited from her.”

Harry pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck. Draco dropped his head forward, giving him better access. He treasured every second of Harry’s lips and breath on his skin.

It was the pounding of little feet rather than the pitter-patter that alerted the men to Scorpius’ imminent arrival.

Harry whispered into Draco’s hair. “I’ll remember where I left off and pick back up later.” 

He stepped away from Draco just as the library doors were thrown open and Scorpius ran into the room. Draco did not have his son dress for the day until after their breakfast, so the child was still in the pyjamas he’d slept in. His hair was unbrushed and sticking up in a bad case of bedhead, and faint pink lines marked his cheek from where it had rested on his pillow. He held his Snitch snuggle ball in his hand. Upon seeing Harry with his father, he stopped short, exclaiming, “Daddy! Harry’s here!”

“Yes, I know. We’ve been discussing things. I know I promised no new teachers for a while, but what would you say if Harry were to teach you?”

“Yea!” the little boy shouted in excitement.

“Good then, that’s settled.” Draco rubbed his hands together. “Now, how about some breakfast? Who’s hungry?”

“Can Harry have breakfast with us?” 

“If he would like,” Draco responded, looking hopefully at Harry. He felt a nervous excitement spread through him. This was real. The kisses they’d shared, telling him about Astoria, Harry listening and holding him in his arms afterwards. The kiss he had placed on the back of Draco’s neck and his promise to pick up where he’d left off later. It had all happened. Harry cared for him; he returned Draco’s feelings. Harry wanted him.

“I would like that very much,” Harry answered with a smile for both father and son, a smile that held a different promise to both recipients.

“Can we eat outside, Daddy? It’s not raining.”

“I don’t see why not. Why don’t you ask Ippy to set the table on the terrace?”

The child called for the elf and politely made the request to the little creature, complete with ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’. 

“Very well done,” Draco complimented his son, who beamed under his father’s praise. “Lead the way.”

Harry fell into step beside Draco as they followed Scorpius and gently squeezed his hand. “You’re a good dad,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Draco basked in Harry’s approval. 

As the three stepped outside onto the patio together, the bright light of a new day enveloped them, and Draco reflected on how much had changed so quickly. Just days ago he had resolved on leaving England. Now, he and Harry had snogged like randy teenagers, and Harry was joining them for breakfast. Draco felt drunk with anticipation of what that night held. He was not naive. He didn’t fool himself that there would not be difficulties to be faced if he and Harry were to be together. They would face many obstacles, but he’d been given a chance, and he would not give that chance up without a fight. He took Harry’s hand in his and stroked his wrist with his thumb. 

Scorpius ran from the terrace onto the lawn. The sky above them was pure blue. “Look, Daddy! The clouds are all gone!”

"Yes, they are."

The sun had come out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/80422.html).


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